


Songbirds and Baby Bats

by bioticgoddess



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Under the Red Hood (2010), Jason Todd/Red Hood - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26176960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioticgoddess/pseuds/bioticgoddess
Summary: Jason Todd returns from the dead and, after the events of Under the Red Hood he goes from Gotham to Bludhaven in search of himself…and an old friend. But getting your life back is never easy and Black Mask has enlisted the aid of Gotham’s other Crime Families as well as a few ghosts of Batman’s past. He’s coming for the Red Hood and everyone of his allies.
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

Introduction:

Amelia “Amy” Flynn had been Jason’s recruit to the Bat-team. Family. Thing. He’d convinced Bruce to bring her back to the states, along with her mother and sister, after they’d successfully gotten the fringe-IRA group her father once belonged to arrested. It had also resulted in her father’s death. He’d bled out in Bruce’s arms, taking a bullet for Batman and extracted a promise from the caped crusader: Get his family out of Ireland. Make sure they were safe.

That, as both Batman and Robin were aware, meant smuggling the Flynn women - Amelia, her mother Sara, and sister Evelyn - back to Gotham. They’d done the whole song and dance where Bruce awarded both girls full scholarships to Gotham Academy (complete with room and board) and offered her mother a position Wayne Enterprises. Even flying the now scarred and scared family to Gotham on corporate plane with Bruce and Jason.

In their brief time in Ireland, he’d become fast friends with Amy. Both as Jason and his Robin identity. She was stubborn and headstrong, even as a child and had followed her father the same as Batman and Robin. It had made the plane ride amusing as she peppered him with questions about the caped crusaders and Gotham Academy, Wayne Manor. Only to end up living there a year after arriving in the States. Her mother and sister inevitably leaving for Canada. It was, as Sara had said, homier. More like Ireland.

Amy had refused to go.

A few months later she found the Batcave entrance built into manor library. She’d pulled the copy of Sherlock Holmes that opened the secret access, expecting it to be a fancy limited printing not a lever cover. The same curiosity that once landed her under pinned to asphalt Robin in an Belfast Shipyard found her tiptoeing down the long staircase until she stood in the Batcave proper.

Weeks of arguments, bargaining, and debating followed about what to do with her. Whether or not enlisting her into their little vigilante force was a good idea. Ultimately, Jason won. Offering that she could be the auxiliary sidekick (a term Amy balked at). That her being trained and able to help would be better than hoping Dick showed up from Bludhaven if things went FUBAR.

Alfred grounded him on behalf of Bruce for the colorful language he used.

She got her proverbial wings less than a year before Jason’s death. Naming her masked identity Wren. It was like having a second, Batgirl around. One who preferred recon to computer manipulation. It was helpful after Joker put Barbara in a wheelchair - the two girls got along almost as well as Jason and Amy. Although not quite as instantly.

Then Jason died. Joker went to Arkham, again. And Amy skipped high school graduation. “Are you certain Miss Flynn,” Alfred had asked when she collected her things - patrol gear included - and loaded them into the pick up truck she’d gotten.

“I can’t stay here Alfred. This place…it’s…not right with Jason,” the Irish lilt that had followed her across the Atlantic nearly gone from years of fighting to blend in. To not be noticed. Only popping up on handful of words and letter combinations. “Dick’s got a place in Bludhaven I can stay. Deal was uni and patrol partner in exchange for a ticket out of Gotham.”

So five years from Jason’s death, and roughly that from Amy’s flight to Bludhaven, sees the arrival of the Red Hood.


	2. Chapter 2

Nightwing regarded the two men, unconscious and propped up against one another on the rooftop, “Did you really have to dial up the voltage on those things?”

“Oy, at least it’s not so bad as those gloves the Electrocutioner wears,” Wren snipped at him, clicking the tasers in her gloves off. She knelt beside one of the men, they were both wearing Joker’s colors. “Since when did this prick leave Gotham,” she asked, changing the subject and tossing the clown’s card, extricated from the breast pocket of the man closest to her, across to Nightwing.

Her partner caught it before the heavy sharpened steel playing card struck him. “Don’t get any ideas little bird,” he cautioned, turning the Joker card over in his hands. “I got a bad feeling about this.” Joker didn’t usually stray outside Gotham, except for the occasional trip to Metropolis - but that was usually tied to something he already had in the works elsewhere. Hell, anything that pulled the psychotic clown from his home had something to do with Gotham. Or Batman – at the very least it was tied to their former mentor.

“Where he’s concerned it’s always bad,” she added, using a couple sets of flex cuffs to secure the unconscious men’s wrists. For added measure she overlapped their cuffs so they couldn't wander off independent of one another. Unbidden, the image of Jason Todd’s bloody body flashed in her mind. Squeezing her eyes closed like she was fighting some kind of pain, Wren muttered, “Always.”

Nightwing rested a hand on her shoulder. He knew her well enough to know what that hesitation meant. “You should go see him – Jason, I mean.” What he meant was Jason’s grave at Wayne Manor, not the actual boy. “Take a few days,” he continued, waving his free hand nonchalantly as he talked, “I’ll do the leg work on this one.”

Since his successor’s death, five years prior, Nightwing Dick Grayson had tried his best to keep the young woman away from anything involving Joker. Kept her far from Gotham, and away from Bruce, for good measure. In the wake of Jason’s death all of them had kept out of Bruce and Joker’s gravity.

“No,” she countered, shrugging off his hand as she stood, “I mean. I’ll go see Jason, but I’m not staying out of this case. Whatever that basterd’s up to, it’s in our city Grayson.” Sighing heavily, she added, “Besides, he’d want me to do what he can’t.” Wren was far away from the skyscraper’s roof when she talked about Jason, he knew why almost better than anyone. After what Joker had done to Barbara a year or so earlier, he had a better understanding of the grief she felt over Jason’s death. Thankfully, the former Batgirl had survived.

Their moment of contemplation was shattered.

“Well aren’t you two cute,” an augmented voice mocked, followed by a warning shot fired through the space between the pair. On instinct, the former sidekicks dove for cover. The industrial HVAC machines and protruding vents provided temporary shielding from whoever had fired at them. “How close you’ve become over the years,” he chuckled mockingly, “Almost makes me sick.”

Wren turned the charges back on in her gloves, one hand coming to rest on one of the batons strapped to her thigh. “Bloody wonderful,” she murmured.

Nightwing taunted back, making a series of hand motions to Wren from his hiding place, “Family thing, you wouldn’t get it.” He went high, she went low. Popping up like a jack-in-the box, he threw his bird shaped shuriken at the man. Simultaneously, Wren moved outside and close to the roof, flanking their attacker.

A series of shots rang out, shattering the flying blades.

Taking a deep breath, Wren wheeled out from behind an HVAC unit to the left of their assailant. Using the machine as leverage, she landed with one hand planted firmly on the man’s shoulder. The electric charge that should have stunned him was at least partially absorbed in his body armor and dark-brown leather jacket. 

He grunted and doubled over momentarily. Despite the obviously cramped and convulsing muscles in his body, he brought back an elbow that caught Wren hard in the solar plexus. She gasped as he growled at her from behind his red helmet, “Stay out of this.” A second later he charged towards Nightwing. His long strides and intensity matching the former Robin’s own.

“Bloody hell,” she sucked in a sharp breath, dropping to one knee. The boys grappled. It was like watching Dick and Tim spar. Their general moves and fighting styles were eerily similar. This guy knew when to duck; when to block; even when it would be opportune to throw his own punches. What he didn’t notice, however, was Nightwing pushing him back towards Wren. The acrobat was taking ground from the gunslinger, inch by inch.

One cargo pantsed leg extended behind him. The attempt at bracing was within Wren’s reach. The light gravel on the rooftop slid and crunched under her feet as the Irish girl dove. Both hands clasped around his leg and the electrical charge in her gloves surging up through the outstretched limb. It brought him down to both knees, groaning and cursing in sharp hisses between what sounded like clenched teeth.

The charge fully released, she scrambled to her feet. “Fuck! Irish gimme a break,” the man barked behind his crimson helmet. The nickname...his nickname froze her in her tracks.

Even Nightwing stopped.

Only one person had ever called her that. Only one person could get away with it and he was five years dead. Buried. Wren flushed, reaching out to grab the side of one of the tall metal vents. One word was all it had taken and it felt like gravity had been turned off in her world.

“Can’t be,” Nightwing whispered, his defensive stance relaxing as he visibly had the same thought she did. That heartbeat was when he got a good look at the guy. He was taller, broader in the shoulders, and just..bigger...than Dick. His outfit: the dark brown leather jacket, the black cargo pants tucked into heavy matching combat boots, and the black armor (not unlike his own) - made him twice as imposing as either Nightwing or Wren. The focal point, a red bat-symbol emblazoned across the chest felt like an insult. It was salt in a wound Dick didn’t know he had. 

Half a dozen glib comments shot through the acrobat’s head, pushed to the side by reflex and tactical calculus as the other man came at him again. This time he had a knife. Escrima sticks or not, he was good enough to get in under Dick’s defenses. Slashing at and grazing the armor. God bless that Wayne Tech titanium-tri weave that made up their combat suits.

The startled shout that came from Nightwing snapped Wren back to her senses. Without thinking, as she was prone to, the Irish girl picked herself. Pushing off the metal vent she shot forward. Arms locking around the man’s midsection. Forward momentum sent them off balance and forced him to his knees then face first into the roof. The knife clattering across the asphalt and gravel. 

Training kicked in before her shoulder ground into the roof and Wren rolled forward twice more. She spun around on one knee to face him. 

Winded he pushed himself up off his stomach, “Well this wasn’t my smartest plan.” Face pointed at the roof, he missed Nightwing yanking Wren behind cover. Voice lowered he grumbled, “Well, you did have a few extra years of his training big bird.”

A knot formed in Wren’s stomach. This was a gamble that could land her with a bullet through her head. But it was a gamble she had to take. Popping around and into the open before Nightwing could react found her with one of the firearms pointed directly at her chest. “Jason, stop,” her voice was low, heart hammering almost in her ears.

“Wren, what are you doing,” Nightwing demanded, still tucked behind the HVAC unit, his shuriken ready to fly if this gambit of hers failed.

She acknowledged her partner’s comment with a wave of her hand – silencing him as well. “It’s you isn’t it,” nearly tripping over her words as she went, brow furrowed behind her domino mask, “I don’t know how, but it’s you.” The man she presumed to be Jason stood steadfast, a kill shot still trained on Wren. Then, when she was convinced he’d shoot her, he pulled his arm back, clicking the safety in place with his thumb. His index finger slipping off the trigger and to the guard.

Holstering the weapon he chuckled behind the red helmet. It was becoming a theme. “Jason,” she called his name again, reaching out reflexively. Her palm pressed against his chest, just over the bat symbol; he stepped back. The entire exchange was uncomfortable, enough that none of them moved.

The man laughed, a heavy nervous belly laugh and reached up to his helmet. At least someone thought this whole situation was hilarious. The wind picked up and whipped around them on the roof. Pulling the helmet clear of his head, the man praised Wren, “Clever little bird.” The joy was sucked out of his face and voice as quickly as it appeared. Looking over to the pair he snapped derisively, “I see you two got on just fine without me.” It was sharp, angry.

“Jason,” Wren’s Hail Mary had paid off. “What the bloody hell are you on about?” The Irish was coming out in her voice as emotion peaked. Relieved...no,elated as she was to see him. If he was going to accuse her of anything other than breathing then she might clock him. Besides, if anyone was going to get an ass chewing tonight it was him - for being alive and not telling her. For picking a fight with and using what looked like lethal, even if it was half-assed, force against her and Dick. Arm falling to her side, she balled both of her hands into fists.

It was Nightwing who answered the charge laid against them, “Fine? You think we were fine without you?” The outrage in his voice startling Jason more than anything. His eyes went wide behind the red domino mask he’d worn under his helmet. “Hah! I lost a brother and she – you’re fucking blind if you think she was fine.” The eldest of Bruce’s adoptive sons was practically seething.

Wren was too busy wrestling with the contrary urges to wrap her arms around or beat the crap out of Jason to bother interrupting or correcting Dick.

Looking between them, Jason snapped, “So why’s the clown alive? Why are you both in Bludhaven!” Neither of them answered. “That’s what I thought,” he snapped again. Jason clenched his jaw, obviously ready to attack again.

Wren - Amy - spoke fist. Hesitant, like she was unsure of the words coming out of her mouth or if she should even share the information with him. “Bruce nearly killed him. We still don’t know why he didn’t. Maybe he realized revenge wouldn’t bring you back. Til now we’ve all believed you gone, buried.” Her eyes were on Jason’s boots. Chewing her lip for a moment, Amy continued, “Losing you about killed me. If Dick hadn’t offered me a place in Bludhaven, it might well have. Gotham’s...a good place to get yourself killed on vengeance.”

That sent the color from Jason’s face. He reached out, arm stopping half way between himself and Amy. “Dick, go,” Jason requested, eyes flitting over to his adoptive brother. “Sounds like you took care of her, so I owe you.”

When he didn’t move, Wren turned around and nodded to him. She mouthed “I’ll be fine”. Unwilling to leave but not with much of a choice, unless he wanted to continue fighting with Jason and his guns, Dick sighed. Walking past them he patted a hand on Jason’s shoulder, squeezing it in an attempt to be the overprotective sibling, “Don’t you dare hurt her.”

“You know I won’t,” Jason’s face and eyes softened briefly.

Exasperatedly, Nightwing walked off past the two Joker Gang members they’d dealt with earlier. Both were blissfully unconscious, a small blessing considering how they’d thrown each other’s real names around. Casting a final look over his shoulder at the pair, Nightwing disappeared over the edge of the rooftop.

The second he heard the scraping of boots against the roof’s edge and the soft explosion of grappling gun propellant, Jason wrapped his arms tightly around Wren’s waist – dropping his helmet to the rooftop. Her own arms encircled his waist. Eyes squeezed closed, he buried his face in her hair. It had been too long and he felt that lost time constrict his chest.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” she suggested, his smell of leather and gunpowder strangely comforting in the moment. She’d all but forgotten about the two unconscious men she and Nightwing had apprehended.

Jason nodded, brushing some stray hairs back into her braid before stepping back and collecting his helmet. Inhaling deeply, Wren tapped out an alert via her communication gauntlet for the Bludhaven police. “You’ll need to explain all that,” She pointed at the helmet and red bat symbol on his combat suit, starting towards the opposite corner of the roof.

He spun on his heel and putting an arm around her shoulders fell in lockstep with the girl. The wail of sirens coming ever closer. “This,” he said, “You know anyone who’s earned it more than me?” It was a rhetorical question, the smirk and wink he flashed made that much clear.

Rolling her eyes, Amy shot him another exhausted look before shooting her grappling hook to the next building over. Jason was still the same smartass she remembered. The cable went taught before the mechanisms in the grappling gun yanked her through the air. The air rushing past her, past them both, was freedom. As they continued across roofs, deploying and re-deploying their grappling guns, Jason called behind her, “I’ll explain when we get wherever you’re leading,” there was a smile in his voice. He sounded...relaxed. Or relieved? She wasn’t sure which and neither was Jason.

Inevitably, they came to the roof of her condominium complex. The balcony of Amy’s top floor unit was like a beacon of hope below their feet, which dangled from the top of the roof’s overhang. The pair straddled the barrier, facing one another. Jason’s helmet sat between his legs, his dark hair cropped shorter than she remembered. He sighed heavily, voice echoing the exhaustion drawing at his face. Looking down at the red metal and plastic egg of a helmet he asked, “What happened after I…died.”

The question hung in the air. Amy pursed her lips, reaching up to peel off her domino mask. It took a fair portion of the eye-black and adhesive with it. Anxiously she ran her thumbs back and forth along the sticky back of the mask.

“The abridged version,” Her words were carefully measured. “We buried you. Or, at least thought we buried you. Far as any of us knew, you were in that coffin. Um...because of what happened, Bruce didn’t request an autopsy. It was closed casket. Your obituary read you died in a hit and run. I cried for a week, or at least until it hurt to cry. Dick...um...he caught me trying to go after Joker on my own and dragged me back to the Manor. Made me the offer to come to Bludhaven. I think I knew that killing Joker wouldn’t make anything better, even if it could’ve brought you back. So here we are, five years later.” She nodded rhythmically to herself as she finished the account.

He snorted, shaking his head, “Well, that lines up with the conversation I had with Bruce and Alfred.”

Brow furrowed at him, head cocked to the side quizzically, Amy invited, “Your turn then?”

Swinging his legs over the edge of the roof, Jason sighed, “You’ll want to be comfortable. It’s…complicated…” A second later he dropped the half dozen feet down to her balcony. Really he just didn’t want her to attack him when he relayed the account of what had transpired in Gotham. It was apparent that at least she hadn’t spoken with Bruce or Alfred. If Dick knew, he’d let nothing on during their brief conversation on the roof across town. He caught the handle of the sliding door as Amy dropped behind him onto the balcony. He was almost relieved that she left her balcony door unlocked. After all, what were the odds a normal person would bother climbing up to the fifteenth floor of a high-rise building to break in.

They slipped inside and he took a look around what Amy called home. A table littered with pieces of electronics and other tools of the vigilante trade lined the wall of what was likely meant to be a dinning area. A big couch sat just off-center in the main portion of the room, facing a television. Save for her work area, the only place that looked used was the kitchen. Of course it did, Amy had always had a habit of disappearing into the one at Wayne Manor when she was stressed. Innumerable kitchen injuries aside, it always yielded something edible. He smiled at the amalgam of memory and slid out of his jacket.

“Here,” she patted the back of a dining room chair, her utility belt and gloves slung over the back of one beside it. “I’ll make some tea, you get comfortable.” It was an order more than anything, one he was pleased to follow.

Sighing, he sank into the couch and started reaching for his boots. Only stopping when he touched the laces and heard her Amy click on the electric kettle. His brain, survival instincts, and slight paranoia from the five years that had passed crashing over him like a wave. They weren’t the same people, they’d been before. Not by a long shot. Releasing the still-tied laces of his combat boots Jason sat up straight again. He wasn’t shutting down but he was suddenly uncomfortable and fought to keep it hidden. That intimacy from earlier feeling far away and out of reach. “Do you still take it with honey and lemon,” she called, making him jump. “Jay?”

“Yes and don’t worry about it,” he tried not to sound as tense as he suddenly found himself. When Amy finally sat on the sofa beside him, Jason sighed heavily. The mug of tea he took from her was warm in his hands. Focusing on that, he looked at her out of the corner of his eye, his own red domino mask still on, “Ra’s pulled me out of that coffin before it ended up in Bruce’s hands. You said it was closed casket?” She nodded, re-confirming the account. “Well, I took a swim – so to speak – in a Lazarus Pit and here I am. Took a while to get my head on straight, to get back to the States. I actually had Gotham Crime down for a while there,” that got Amy’s attention and she set her cup down, sitting square to Jason. “Yea…I got Black Mask’s men to flip on him. They stopped dealing to kids, it was working. I was doing what Batman didn’t, wouldn’t! Almost killed the Joker while I was at it,” he said hurriedly, shaking his head and staring down into the citrusy green tea, “Got a building dropped on me in the process. Y’know, my usual shit.”

All of the emotions she’d held in check the last several years finally boiled over. She snapped, “What the bloody hell Jason! You’ve been alive this whole fecking time! Instead of comin’t’me or Dick or ALFRED ye went off and turned Rambo!? Started in on Bruce and bloody well about got yourself killed! AGAIN!” So angry was an understatement. Tears had welled up, spotting the corners of her eyes and running open streams through what remained of the eye black. “You fecking ass!” 

Jason leaned back warily, setting the cup down on her coffee table as his back hit the arm of the couch. Being as nonchalant as he had was a poor choice. He should’ve known better. She’d leaned forward slightly with the weight of it all and let out a frustrated cry. “You’re cute when you’re angry,” He teased gently, hoping it wouldn’t blow up in his face. 

His hands found their way to her biceps. “Ass,” she grumbled, fighting the urge not to collapse forward into him. 

“I’m sorry Irish,” he swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes: For the purposes of this story, the ages of the Robins and the OC are as follows – Jason and Amy are 22; Dick is 25; Tim is 16.


	3. Chapter 3

Jason dropped face first into the bed. It had been ages since he’d slept on something half so comfortable. But this, the way the memory foam contoured around his aching bones, this was heaven. “Oh my god this! I could sleep for days!” The moan that escaped his tired body was euphoric.

“And you’re bleeding all over my comforter,” Amy groaned behind him. She had her first aid kit, a couple towels, and several containers of sterile water in a portable plastic tub. “Bathroom, now,” she ordered, shifting the bundle from one hip to the other and pointing to the open door on the left side of the room.

His grunt was more of a whine, even as he dragged himself from the bedroom into the bathroom. Bloody footprints across the hardwood floor marking his progress. “Come back from the dead, get shot. Yea, that’s about right,” he whimpered, dropping down onto the edge of the bathtub. “Really,” He grumbled when Amy cleared her throat and pointed to the bench that sat at the back of the bathtub, it was the sort of plastic and poorly treated aluminum one picked up at Bed Bath and Beyond for a grandparent.

“Yes. Last thing I need is you fainting and cracking your skull on my soap dish,” the Irish girl explained, setting her plastic bin on the counter and all but one of the towels down on the floor and edge of the bath. “Jesus.”

“Yes?”

“Ass.”

“You love me.”

“Don’t push your luck Todd.” The use of his last name was like a sucker punch in the gut. It immediately reminded him of the situation he was in – bleeding out in his estranged girlfriend’s bathroom despite the field dressing they’d applied to the wound. Amy straddled the edge of her tub, his bloody leg outstretched over her lap. He’d been the dumbass to turn his back on the thugs they’d cornered without ensuring he was also out of harm’s way. Been the one to get shot by the cannon of a handgun the guy had been carrying. At least he’d taken the round to the meat of his thigh. Albeit a torso (hell a chest) shot would have been better since he wore heavy armor from neck to hip. Which, as he realized he was down to his undershirt, how he’d gotten his boots, small armory, jacket, and the armored shirt off was beyond him.

A pair of surgical scissors came out of the bin and Amy split his pants leg from ankle to mid-thigh . “Really Irish,” he grumbled, “I liked those pants.”

“I can’t treat what I can’t see and that whole you alive thing is nice,” she countered, not once looking up from her work. She rolled the pant leg up until she could see the angry bloody mess that was his thigh. “And why the hell do you, _mister firearms for days_ not have armor **everywhere** ,” she chastised, futilely searching the circumference of his leg for an exit wound. They were both really wishing that Alfred was there or that they had the Batcave’s suite of medical resources. But mostly Alfred. “You couldn’t get stabbed, no you had to go and get shot,” she grumbled.

Shoulders pressed to the bath’s tile wall, Jason was starting to feel the effects of his blood loss. The exertion needed to get back to home base and then into the bathroom taking its toll. Without Alfred present, he was eternally grateful that the butler had at least given every one of them emergency medical (and some surgical) training. He’d also been the one who put together each of the first aid and emergency kits at their disposal.

He noted the lighter that sat in her lap with a heavy sigh. He should have paid attention in the field. He knew better and now she had to patch him up – something they both hated, despite the necessity. Almost grimly, Amy fished out the container holding the necessary components for an improvised IV: needle, tourniquet, tape, and a length of rubber hose. This was not her first rodeo.

Quickly she set a pair of tape strips dangling from a wire coat hanger and hooked it with the upside down saline bag to the curtain rod above them. Knowing what came next, she was fixated on getting this done right. Fighting for a moment to clear the hose line of any air bubbles, she cast a quick glance to Jason – he looked like he’d been through a fight with Killer Croc. “I hate this,” she grumbled, successfully getting the improvised IV ready. When it came down to it, she had no problems treating any of the other Bat-Family members when the need arose, but she could never really get comfortable with inevitably driving a needle into another human’s flesh.

Pinching off the hose and hastily tying the tourniquet above his left elbow was the easy part. “This is payback for me dieng isn’t it,” He asked, color starting to drain from his face.

“It did get you out of exams,” she countered, the flame of her lighter going along the length of the needle pinched between her thumb and forefinger. In time with the lighter going out she blew on the needled in an effort to cool the newly sterile metal. Incredulous at her comment, Jason clicked his tongue against his teeth and Amy unceremoniously inserted the needle in one of the veins on his left arm. There was an efficiency about her technique, even as she attached and taped down the hose that, in other circles, would have raised some serious questions. For them, however, it was just another day. “Also meant you stood me up though,” she added, patting his arm again as she sank to her knees.

He’d forgotten how much this shit hurt. There were usually much better drugs, or Alfred’s infinitely better bedside manner. “Not like I planned to die,” he offered, expecting some reaction from her other than a soft huff of breath. Amy’s attention, however, centered on the nasty entry wound that marred his otherwise pristine thigh. “Jesus,” he shouted, eyes wide as pain shot through his body. How he’d missed the forceps was a question for later. Now, they were buried in his open wound and it hurt like a bitch. “You are enjoying this way too much,” he teased. Jaw and fists clenched he almost didn’t feel the medical tool tighten around the projectile, smashed and caught by his muscle.

The bloody metal mushroom of a bullet popping out of his leg between the head of the forceps. “Can I keep it,” he asked through gritted teeth. It wasn’t clear if he was kidding or being sincere, the effects of the associated blood loss had seeped into his voice.

It clattered to the floor of the bath, the tinging of metal on metal as it haphazardly rolled onto the drain grate.

“Don’t move,” she ordered, eyes narrowed.

Amy was channeling her best impersonation of Alfred; the British butler was far more intimidating than the Irish girl. The shower head wasn’t removable, something that would need to be rectified if Jason’s returned presence in her life was going to be permanent. After all, he had been her only other GSW patient. The very one she’d trained on years ago, she recollected, grabbing a gallon jug of distilled water from under the sink. Yanking the sealed lid off, she poured a portion of the jug’s contents over his leg. Pink water flowed down the side and basin of the tub swirling like a storm cloud down the drain. “Oy,” she called out, “None of that either!”

It would do them no good to patch up his GSW taken care of just to have him pass out and concuss himself on any one of the hard surfaces in the bathroom. Though the tub’s faucet concerned her more than just about anything else nearby. “Can I keep it,” he asked again, struggling to focus even when Amy leaned him back up against the cool tile wall. He was so fixed on the bullet that he missed her resting his head against the corner of the wall, not really reacting even as she fidgeted with the makeshift IV until it was at the equivalent of a full drip.

“Alfred I could kiss you,” she laughed softly as she looked into the kit. A scalpel stared up at her from inside a bright pink plastic case.

Jason roared, eyes wide and blood shot as she painstakingly set to clean the wound - flashlight and scalpel in hand. Dead and ruined tissue cut away like she was whittling a piece of driftwood. Ten agonizing minutes passed before she was comfortable sitting back and rinsing it with the peroxide. By the time her gaze met Jason’s own, he was red. Nostrils flaring he had to fight the urge to yell at her, but the pain still bled into his voice. “Fuck! Irish! You really are trying to kill me!” 

Face blank, brow and eyes narrowed at him she clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Not funny,” she sharply poured more of the much needed peroxide over the wound. Her otherwise soft touch, as she dabbed the excess fluid with gauze, meant nothing at that moment. She may as well have taken a Batarang and driven it to the bone. He’d been shot before, it wasn’t usually this bad. Why did this hurt so much? It wasn’t like Amy was trying to cause more pain than was absolutely necessary. “And aye, you can keep the damn bullet,” she sighed, the edge on her voice replaced with exhaustion.

Silence settled over the pair as she took up another needle. Threading it, she began the precise work of closing up the actual wound. Stitches had once been a game among them - who had the better scars. Of all her would-be-surgical skills, it was the one that had seen the most use between her own injuries and clothes mending. Delicately she guided the needle through his skin, looping it into a knot. It was a process she repeated along the length of his wound nearly two dozen times. It would’ve been almost meditative had she not been working on Jason. “You know you’re getting another IV right,” her tired words shattered the silence like a brick to glass.

“Any pain killers in there,” he groaned, barely acknowledging her previous statement; wanting desperately to get off the bench and out of the bathroom. Between the water, peroxide, and blood he was a soaking wet mess and wanted to fall face first into bed - even if that burst the stitches Amy had just given him. And for his body to stop screaming at him. Okay, so mostly for his body to stop screaming at him.

Shaking her head, the Irish girl used the tub and the closed toilet cover to push herself up to stand. Her own legs had gone to sleep from being pressed to the bathroom’s tile floor. The padding and armor of her combat suit had been no help in that department. “Blame Dick,” she said finally, working off the latex gloves. Jason hadn’t even seen her yank those on. He could barely process much of the process that got him out of the tub and, with his jury-rigged IV in tow, landed him in the queen-sized bed.

\--

He grumbled groggily, “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” she yawned, tapping away at her computer keyboard. Leaning around her monitor she added, “Alfred asked me to scold you, again, for not having full body armor,” she smirked.” At least this time you didn’t try to Dick Grayson your way through machine gun fire.” Jason frowned as she waved her hands emphatically. They could both vividly remember his sixteen-year-old attempt to navigate a field of fire using a number of aerial acrobatic moves that were typical of Dick Grayson’s fighting style. Things that came naturally to the Flying Grayson survivor, not so much to Jason Todd.

He snorted, crossing his arms over his chest petulantly, relieved to find a bandage on his arm in place of the IV needle. “I can’t believe you told Alfred,” he grumbled, pouting at her.

The back of her legs buffeted the computer chair as she stood, rolling her eyes. The movement sent her chair rolling back a few feet until it collided against the wall’s wood paneling with a soft _thunk_. “Shouldn’t surprise you and how does your leg feel,” she asked, collecting a tablet computer off the desk as she rounded it’s corner. A pair of basketball shorts, fuzzy socks, and an oversized tank top had replaced her combat suit in his hours of unconsciousness; it sat in a pile on the floor with what remained of his own field attire.

“Still hurts like a bitch,” he admitted, watching as she padded across the floor and climbed onto the vacant half of her bed.

The hand-held device chiming as it booted up. Finger tips gliding across the tablet screen she unlocked it and brought up the mirror of her desktop display. The plus side to having Barbara Gordon as a friend – your computer system, no matter how lackluster, could still beat most. Situating herself shoulder to shoulder with the Red Hood, she opened up the flash-drive, “I already put in a request with Alfred for extra pain meds and anti-inflammatories in my next batch of kits. I also requested something for you.” That got his attention.

Brow raised curiously he asked, taking the offered tablet, “Oh?”

Now, sliding up next to Jason everything suddenly felt strange. He’d been in her apartment less than a week, sleeping, albeit, on the couch in the living room but otherwise living with her. His presence suddenly made the otherwise comfortable and welcoming hidey-hole of a flat feel…strange. As he flipped up the files on her tablet,she fidgeted, “An upgrade to your patrol suit love... with armor.” Jason grumbled, she could hear the eye roll even when he elbowed her in the side. “Should have you suited up in a couple days,” she smiled.

Despite the reaction to his jest, he saw the strange tension in her muscles. “Hey,” he elbowed her again, “You alright over there?”

She nodded. Not particularly believable either.

Grimacing as he rolled his weight onto his left side, facing her, Jason wrapped his arms around Amy’s waist. “Bullshit.” She yelped, as he rolled the rest of the way over and pinned her to the bed. He could feel the pull of his muscles and skin on his thigh yelling at him. So maybe throwing his literal weight around less than what, eight hours from being shot and sewn up wasn’t his brightest idea. For the moment, he’d rank it up there with the chain of decisions that found him buried under a building with Bruce and the Joker a few months earlier. “So, what’s buggin’ you Little Bird,” he resumed, legs squeezed tight around her waist. He had Amy’s hands pinned above her head, the tablet pushed into the warm spot he’d been sitting in a half second earlier.

Glaring up, she drummed her fingers against the side of his wrists. “Well,” He poked again, brow raised at her expectantly.

“Everything,” she offered, mentally shelving the part of her training that told her to shift as far down as their current position would allow while throwing her legs up to try and wrap them around his head and neck. She didn’t like being pinned and restrained. None of them did. Well, most of the time. A half smile flashed across her face and she sighed, “You’ve been in Bludhaven, what, a few days? Hard to just walk away from the sensation that I’m gonna wake up and this will have all been one long dream. That you’re…”

“Dead.” He finished, hands slipping off hers. Still sitting on her hips, he sighed, “Well, I’m not planning to go anywhere, not unless you come with me. Definitely don’t plan to die again.”

“That’s...good to know,” there was hesitation in her voice, like she couldn’t believe the words that came out of his mouth. She could see him, touch him, feel the heat that radiated from him, and had performed minor surgery on him the night before. None of that negated the sick feeling that accompanied every dream she’d had the last five years where she’d sworn he was really there with her, only to wake up to the truth. “Give it time Jaybird. I know you’re real...know you’re here.” Her hands were resting on his thighs delicately.

He nodded, leaning forward and kissing her forehead. At the same time, swinging his leg off and rocking back onto his back beside her. “Well, how about we start with finding out what’s bringing Gotham’s gangs - to Bludhaven.” As if by magic, the tablet appeared, laying on his chest. “Ta da.”

“You are still my favorite dork,” she smiled, rolling onto her side facing him. Jason tapped gently at the screen, holding it up at enough of an angle that they could both examine the files taken from the Sionis Industries offices in Bludhaven. They had shipping manifests – over sea and land, a few warehouse inventories, partial correspondence, and meeting minutes. Portions of the documents looked like they were written in code, the sort of thing meant to fool customs inspectors. “Really, baby bottles,” she grumbled skeptically, highlighting the dozenth mention of things child care related on a spreadsheet.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jason wondered, “You’d think a corporate overlord would be more creative in how they hide their questionable line items.”

“They can’t all be Bruce,” she yawned, her own head throbbing from the combination of sleep deprivation and staring at a screen for what seemed like hours on end. “Coffee?”

“God yes. And Bruce can suck it.” He didn’t even acknowledge the side-eye that answered him. In a huff she bounced out of the bed, feet planting on the floor and delivering her through the door then on to the kitchen. It only took Amy about ten minutes to brew and pour the coffee before she returned with two mugs balanced on a large tray. Creamer and some of what looked like fruit and snack food crowded what space remained around the mugs. “Yea, food’s important too,” he chuckled, “And I think I’ve got something,” he tapped anxiously at the screen. 

Setting the tray down between them, Amy waved for him to continue. “You’re not gonna like it,” he cautioned. Halfway through a sip of coffee she looked over the mug’s rum, brow cocked curiously at him. The game of cat and mouse he was playing with the info had hit a nerve. “Okay then,” he said flatly, “In addition to Black Mask, it’s Carmine, Falcone, and…this one’s redacted…looks like they’re trying to consolidate their operations at the port here. But I can’t find anything regarding the actual cargos or other main goals. Everything’s stupidly cryptic,except for the recruitment shit. They’re taking in guys from the rogues’ gangs who want to…live I guess. I dunno. They’re all gonna get their asses beat.”

Jason actually looked bored. “Irish, seriously, I could just go shoot ‘em,” he yawned.

She set down her mug as he took up his, “Whether we like it or not, we’re both detectives. Our job is to find answers and do something with the information. To help people,” There was a wry smile on her face. “If it happens we get to beat up the bad guys, well, that’s a bonus.” She winked.

“Ungh,” he rolled his eyes. Sipping his own coffee, Jason couldn’t help but think he was being dragged back into a life that ran parallel to Bruce’s. That he was going to have to deal with his adoptive father again, regardless of whether or not he wanted to. No matter how comfortable, how relaxed and content he was with Amy, the ghost of Robin haunted him like a shadow in his peripheral vision. The bed moved, he was sure Amy had said something but he’d been so lost in his memory that the words disappeared against the dun from the open window and the ceiling fan wiring above. He half-nodded, seeing the moment when he came back and burst from the Lazarus pit as a bizarre overlay on her big pine dresser.

Something would have to give.

He couldn’t go back, couldn’t be what Bruce had wanted him to be when he was Robin. But falling back into the rhythm he’d found with Amy, that had been as natural as breathing. He didn’t understand why but he intended to find out. To find the balance that would, as he’d promised moments earlier, keep him alive. Had to find the balance that would allow him to really live as more than a weapon. More than someone else’s tool.


	4. Chapter 4

“How did I let you talk me into this,” he grumbled, delicately adjusting the communication device hidden behind his ear. Jason was set up on the roof across from the one of the more elite hotels in Bludhaven. Staring down his scope and into the massive reception area he could see everyone in the churning crowd of socialites. More importantly, it allowed him to keep an eye on Wren and Nightwing. Both of whom were undercover in the crowd below, much to his chagrin.

Snorting laughter echoed in his ear. It was unnerving, even if expected. “ _ I talked you into nothing. _ ” Amy stood near the bar, practically hiding behind her cocktail tray, braided blonde wig in stark contrast to her naturally dark hair. Otherwise she blended in nicely with the serving staff with their black-on-black uniforms. Save for their matching royal blue bow ties and vests, the hired staff looked like they belonged as guests of the event.

If nothing else, at least he had a decent view from his position across the street.

“ _ Leaving you two unsupervised would be goddamn stupid _ .” And there he was - Dick Grayson. The reason he’d had to suffer for days without proper pain medication for the mostly-healed gunshot wound to his leg. The reason he was up on a roof acting as their spotter instead of wandering through the crowd with them looking for Black Mask and his “business partners”. No, Grayson had  **insisted** on being their back up and doing the bulk of the planning.

Since Jason’s injury meant that he couldn’t really be in the throng below, he’d been forced to let the other former-sidekick lead. This was a contact sport. Even as recovered as he was, a hard enough hit (intentional or not) could hamper his movements and endanger everyone.

Grunting he warned, “Okay big bird. Just keep your eyes open.” Audible irritation aside, it doubled as friendly familial advice. 

“ _ Jealous red-bird _ ,” Dick teased back over coms. From his vantage point, Jason could see his adoptive brother facing one of the mirrors in the corner of the room. As expected, the first Robin was adjusting his tie. If stealth hadn’t been the name of the game he’d have more seriously considered tranquilizing him. It wasn’t like he didn’t have sufficient darts and other rounds for the rifle. Once all the factors were considered, it also wouldn’t have been the most difficult shot he’d ever taken. 

It was an option. One he regretfully dismissed.

They could almost hear the eye-roll in Amy’s voice, “ _ Children, please _ .” It brought both boys back to the mission at hand. They needed to put a listening device in the meeting being held by Black Mask and his cohorts, once they arrived, and one in Sionis’ car for good measure. He was definitely the ring leader. And being more cautious than any of them were used to.

“You got incoming, main door, looks like Falcone and Maroni just showed up.” That was Amy’s queue. She weaved her way through the crowd, trailing the two men as they made for the main ballroom. Jason couldn’t see her anymore, it made his stomach churn and caused him to grind his teeth. But he couldn’t move. Not yet. If it came to it, Dick would just have to provide on the ground back up like he promised. 

Jason didn’t hate Dick, not as much as Bruce at least, but he still wasn’t keen on letting the other man do the dirty work in his stead. 

“ _ Any sign of Black Mask _ ,” Dick asked softly, stuffing his hands in his suit-pants pockets and leisurely heading to the bar Amy had abandoned. Scanning the room he caught a glimpse of the two Mobsters and their entourage. This Fundraiser and gala event for RABE Memorial Hospital had, according to their intel, proven to be the best cover for the trio to meet without gathering suspicion. Somehow, they’d secured a private table in the ballroom that same morning. Though it was unlikely that any of them actually donated money to the hospital.

Jason yawned, “Nope.” He was, truth be told, anxious about seeing the mobster.

As if on cue, a flashy silver Bentley rolled up. Behind it were two large black SUVs, the kinds that should have vomited out FBI agents. Instead, half a dozen heavily armed bodyguards in black on black suits climbed out of the doors. From the back of the Bently, white suit like a neon sign, Black Mask practically rolled out of his car. The way he unfolded himself spoke of more dignity than he was prone to acting with. His response to Red Hood’s manipulations earlier in the year were proof enough of that.

Eyes following him, Jason resisted the temptation to shoot him down where he stood, moving his finger off the trigger and to its guard. He warned the others, “He’s here. Showtime.”

\--

Back Mask and his escort wandered through the hotel lobby, with purpose, towards the large ballroom. He could see Carmine Falcone and Luigi Maroni standing with their own bodyguards along opposite walls. It seemed even a hatred of the Batman and all his ilk wasn’t quite enough to unify even these most bitter enemies. He grinned to himself. One of the servers froze in her tracks at the sight, only barely able to keep from dropping her tray of champagne.

One of his bodyguards glared at her and the young woman squeaked before darting off towards a group of thirsty looking Hospital donors. Chuckling at the display, Black Mask took up a chair in the corner at their reserved table, putting himself where he could see the other men as they approached. “Well how about this, the three of us fine gentlemen turning out to support one of Bludhaven’s finest institutions. How much have you two br -- business men given the Hospital?” It was a fair question, albeit a poor feint.

“Sionis, isn’t there anything you can do about...that,” Falcone motioned to Black Mask’s face and took a seat, arms crossed over his chest. “It attracts attention.” The waitress wandered past again and Falcone caught her arm, “Scotch on the rocks dear, and gimme a smile.”

Timidly the blonde chirped, “Aye sir,” and forced a smile before scurrying off.

“I thought we were here to discuss our vermin problem,” Maroni groaned, visibly irritated at the theatrics. None of them particularly enjoyed parting with money, especially not when they’d managed to actually accrue it without drawing the attention of any of the damn capes. While Nightwing and Wren had made things difficult for their operations in Bludhaven, the arrival of the Red Hood had exacerbated the problem. He wasn’t operating at the same level of violence or, it appeared, with the same plan of taking over Bludhaven’s crime, that he reportedly had in Gotham. It was a small favor, despite the fact that a growing number of their new recruits were ending up in the morgue instead of the ICU.

The server came back, setting a bottle of Lagavulin Scotch on the table along with a glass containing one massive round ice cube before Falcone. With a flourish the girl filled the glass so only a tiny fraction of the ice was uncovered. Smiling as sweetly as possible, previous distress seemingly forgotten, she set the bottle back on the table, “Compliments of the house sir.”

“For you darlin,” Falcone smiled back, slipping a twenty into the girl’s hand. Both Maroni and Sionis groaned, rolling their eyes. During the brief show and contact, none of them noticed her affixing the tiny bat-shaped listening device to the underside of the table.

\--

Once around a corner and back in the kitchen, Amy muttered, “You’re up big bird,” pocketing the twenty that Falcone had given her. To be honest, she couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t have clocked him with the tray if he’d gotten fresh with her. His grin on its own sent a chill down her spine and made the brunette want to take a shower right after burning her outfit.. A dozen steps later, she was outside of the Hospital benefit’s venue and walking along the alleyway.

_ “Alright, you get back to the lookout.”  _ Dick instructed. It was his turn. If her task had been uncomfortable, his was unenviable.

Nodding to no one, she assented, “Of course.” Passing a dumpster, she pulled off the vest and withdrew the grappling gun from where it had been secured at the small of her back. The sound of the gears and gunpowder propelling the hook and cable from it was muffled only by the noise from inside the hotel.

Dick chuckled, “ _ Watch and learn kids _ .”

Jason snorted derisively back at him.

“Oy, play nice,” Amy sighed as the gears engaged and drew her up into the Bludhaven skyline.

\--

The slap of shoe-soles on the roofing caught Jason’s attention. He turned sharply, instinctively drawing one of his side-arms from its holster at his hip. “Jesus,” he exhaled as Amy walked out of the shadows. She had one hand up, on the back of her head and was questing for the bobby pins with the other. “I could’ve shot you.” Half a dozen small brassy pins pressed between her lips, the best response he could hope for was the glare that flashed across her face. “Your suit’s in the bag,” he toed a backpack that leaned against the roof’s retaining wall and holstered his pistol.

“Thank you,” she chirped through partly gritted teeth and indelicately collected the bag. Taking cover from any street level voyeurs, and those in other buildings, she worked her way out of her disguise. A soft sigh of relief tumbling from her as she finally managed to get the last of the pins out of her hair and the wig slid off. The entire assembly being shoved as far down in a pocket of the backpack as possible. Burning it later was still on the table.

Jason chuckled, resituating himself to take up a better view of the gala. Shifting along the roof, conscious of the noise his boots made against the rooftop grave, he stopped when he could easily see over the gate that separated the event’s valet vehicles from those of the hotel’s guests. 

The bright red valet company jacket didn’t go with Dick’s suit pants. Shaking his head, Jason would have to hope that Dicks’ persuasion skills were up to snuff if he ran into any trouble. Like if the other valets questioned his presence, should they come upon him.

Dropping down to sit beside him, Amy was fully and blissfully changed. The server costume stuffed into the backpack he’d brought. From the corner of his eyes, he could see her pressing her mask on. “Well, these idiots are chattier than school girls,” she grumbled, shaking her head. Of the three, she had volunteered to monitor the listening device during the Sionis-Falcone-Maroni meeting.

“They spill their nefarious plan yet,” Jason joked, watching as Dick slipped into the back seat of the Bentley Black Mask had arrived. A moment later he saw him dart across the lot to the two luxury sedans that ferried Falcone and Maroni. Another few minutes there, disappearing inside one car then the other, then stealthily tip-toeing over the asphalt until he reached the black SUVs that had flanked Sionis’ vehicle.

Amy held up one hand to silence him and the other pressed delicately over her right ear. She was trying to silence the interference of the world, even the chuckles of her companion. At least the devices Dick was planting in the cars would be recording and uploading to a secure cloud server - thanks to Oracle. She’d only have to listen to one conversation about drug trafficking, arms deals, and probably a few murders. All thinly veiled as financial planning, hospital goods shipments, and construction deals.

“Yea, I see ya Nightwing,” Jason’s voice rocked her out of the intense conversation. “She’s listening to them. Oh, someone just said something lascivious, Wren made a horrific face, yea like when she ate sushi the first time... Yup. Haha... You’re a shit... ” He paused a long while, finally pulling back away from the roof guard and setting both his rifle and the scope aside. As he stretched, his neck popped loudly, in such a way it even made him shudder. 

He worked along the gun. First undoing the attachment with his sniper scope, removing and setting the tool in his rifle case. Then he moved along the rifle like a pianist along a keyboard. Each piece of the rifle taken apart and slid securely into its place in the case. All until he zipped the surprisingly small bag closed and slung it over his shoulder. “Yea, I am so done,” he yawned, putting the back of his hand up to where his mouth was behind the helmet.

From the corner of his eye, as Dick chattered away in his ear, he could see Amy knitting her brow. The domino mask over her face hid a great deal but he’d known her a long time. Long enough that reading her body language was often easier than reading a book. The tension in her body, the way she inclined her head, how her eyes narrowed, everything told him that their conversation had her full attention. Much as Jason wanted to slink back to her apartment, he knew she’d want to stay til the conversation was well and truly over. Or at least until they’d concretely changed topics to the point that she  _ could _ change the level of focus given. 

Leaning his head back against the poured-concrete barrier, he sighed. Being back hadn’t been anything like he’d dreamed it would. He’d expected that, after Bruce shot Joker in crime alley, they would reunite as a team. Not Batman and Robin, obviously; that would be impossible. But as something new. Something better - in Jason’s mind. Instead, here he was: angry, tired, confused, and feeling utterly without purpose. Hoping for some kind of guidance. 

“Hey,” he nudged Amy’s calf with his foot. He leaned towards her, grinning behind his helmet. One day he’d remember that his face was wholly obscured by it…one day.

Head turned slightly, blinking at him, Amy murmured, “Hrm?” Her right hand had floated down from its place over her ear.

“What’s up,” he nodded at her. He’d rather hear about what Black Mask and the others were plotting than sit there and try to self-analyze.

Shrugging and folding her hands behind her neck, Amy sighed, “Nothing good.”

“Go on,” he prompted.

Sighing again, she pulled her knees up to her chest, “Black Mask is working with someone called the Intermediary. It…he…is how they’ve managed to recruit all of their men who used to work for Joker and Two-Face and otherwise in Gotham that they have here now in Bludhaven.”

“ _ Intermediary? _ ” Both Jason and Amy jumped, they’d forgotten for a moment that Dick still had his mic on over in his newfound perch on the Hotel roof across from them. Jason actually wheeled around, keeping low behind the retaining wall and glared at his brother across the street. He could see Nightwing as a shadow next to one of the industrial HVAC units and raising both hands at Grayson, flipped him off. “ _ Real mature _ .”

Amy couldn’t help but let out something between a laugh and a groan, covering her face with her hands. “So maybe besides us calling it a night we all plan to meet tomorrow or even in a couple days. During the day? Want to review my notes.” Her voice was muffled by her hands but the suggestion received the support of the other two vigilantes. 

“Give us a time to do some more digging on this Intermediary,” Jason suggested, hopping up to his feet. Taking a few steps away from the retaining wall, he stretched - lower vertebrae popping the same as his neck had earlier. This time, it was relief. The kind that elicited an  _ ahhh _ and an almost euphoric smile behind his helmet. He didn’t have to sit, crouched behind a wall utterly useless to his companions and the mission. At least while Amy rested he could do research. Or even in the morning, body still aching from his gunshot wound and muscles angry for not being allowed to run, jump, and fight like he normally would on patrol. 

Something was coming, he knew that much. Would have been a fool to assume anything else. 


	5. Chapter 5

Jason arrived at the cafe first. He’d been voluntold to get up, after a much longer than anticipated patrol, to meet Dick. They were going to review the transcripts of relevant conversations pulled from their listening devices placed in the cars of Black Mask, Falcone, and Maroni nearly two weeks prior. It had taken them days to pull the relevant conversations and turn it into easily annotated paperwork. He would have absolutely preferred to be spread out on Amy’s living room floor, papers like fallen snow, going through every line with highlighters and coffee and trying to gain back the ground lost in his five-year absence.

The barista, a shorter girl with heavily braided ginger hair and a smattering of freckles across her cheekbones smiled at him. It was that plastered-on yet surprisingly genuine smile that most service industry professionals mastered. A secret weapon designed to convince everyone that yes, they did want dessert to go with that huge meal they’d just eaten. Or in Jason’s case, a scone to go with his large iced coffee. “Would you like anything else Jason,” she asked sweetly, scribbling his name on the side of a plastic cup.

Another of the baristas, tongues in hand, retrieved his scone from the pastry case. “No, but thanks, this looks great,” He grinned, accepting the paper bag the second barista handed him. Handing the ginger barista a twenty, he walked off, not bothering to collect his change, “You guys keep it.”

Her thanks was genuine and emphatic. It made him smile.

Dropping into a heavy cushioned chair near the pick-up area, Jason stretched out. He’d only agreed to meet Dick here because Amy couldn’t and neither liked the idea of Dick coming to her apartment. Then, of course, Dick had insisted on meeting in public. He’d voiced concern about Jason shooting him. As if the acrobat would be worth the bullet; besides, his guns were locked up in the apartment. “Heh,” he chuckled to himself, breaking a corner piece off the scone and popping it in his mouth.

If nothing else, he could sit there and people watch ‘til Dick bothered to show up. Something he hadn’t really done during daylight hours since returning to Gotham-Bludhaven let alone the States. Not unless he’d been tracking some of Black Mask’s men, or the Joker’s, or otherwise trying to sort out his plan when he’d come home. None of it had been what he was doing now. This was for fun. 

Watching the table nearest the door. The woman checking her phone periodically, seated alone and fidgeting with the seam of her cup’s sleeve. He noted glee that lit up her face when her partner walked through the door of the cafe; reminding him of a time when he was happier, younger, less world weary. The woman’s partner, girlfriend, enveloped her in her arms and peppered her with smiling kisses. It was a gesture he recognized. Something he’d done a lifetime ago and their overall elation was both visually loud and familiar.

It was how he’d felt when he became Robin all those years ago. How he’d felt when Bruce revealed he’d adopted him. A shudder ran down his back – not from the iced beverage collected from the order counter. He didn’t want Bruce to hold a happy place in his memories. Not now, after everything that had happened.

Scanning the room in search of distraction his eyes settled on a young man. A text book open on his table, furiously scribbling on a tablet. Jason could hear the soft tapping and swiping noises as the youth wrote, despite the popping sound his jaw made as he worked on the over-sized scone in hand. He could see the title of the book from his seat:  _ Gotham: A Study of Engineering _ . They’d had to break a dozen or so rules building the elite of the two river cities. Even before becoming a Robin he’d spent enough of his life crawling through the cities guts to know the kid wasn’t going to get the full story in that book. Not that he could tell him any of that, of course. There were too many safe houses and supply caches tucked into the bones of Gotham to risk it, even if he’d been of a mind to do so. 

His phone buzzed, violently.

It broke his focus and, with the huff of a toddler, he fished the device out of his jacket’s interior slip pocket. Swiping his thumb across the screen and unlocking it, the messaging app popped open automatically. A quick tap and the thread he had with Amy replaced it.  _ Just got to the Manor. Text you when I leave. _

_ Ok _ , he typed back..

Almost as quickly as his response went out the words “ _ Be nice to DG.”  _ showed up under his single word. “Hah,” he chuckled, “I’m always nice.” He sent a thumbs up emoji to her instead.

“No you’re not,” the acrobat shook his head. As per usual, he was popping up out of nowhere and doing it more frequently than Batman. Despite being almost twice as loud. At least Jason had the decency to not surprise his friends, especially those who could put him in the hospital. 

Glaring, Jason rocked up out of his chair. Comfortable as he was, they couldn’t actually have their meeting next to the baristas. “Says you,” he grumbled, brow cocked, “This way.”

“See, this is exactly what I meant,” Dick observed, a grin on his face that was probably attracting half the single women in Bludhaven. He had that kind of optimistic magnetism even when he didn’t mean to. 

He followed Jason through the growing throng of patrons to a table against the wall. It was positioned so they wouldn’t be visible from the window but could also easily guard the transcripts and any other relevant documents. All currently tucked neatly in Dick’s gray and blue computer bag. Either of their apartments would have been infinitely better but he had his orders. “So where’s little bird,” Dick asked, startling Jason – though the Red Hood buried it behind a swig of his coffee.

Pulling their chairs out in near unison, Jason shrugged. “Had an errand.” The two did their best not to let the metal feet grate across the café’s floor.

“Supply run,” Dick yawed, dropping into his wooden chair. The grimace that briefly graced his features told Jason that that had been a mistake. Either the wooden seat or metal chair back had reminded Dick’s body of some fight, bruise, or pulled anything from patrol and training. It was a sensation that Jason was intimately familiar with. Pushing the other half of his scone across the table as a peace offering, he nodded. Both in agreement and a sign that the food was fair game.

Anyone who walked past the pair, papers spread out between them, would assume two things: First, that they were brothers – despite looking similar only in the broadest of senses. Both boys had dark, nearly black, hair and deep blue eyes. They were both athletic and their faces had similar, again general, shapes. Overall, Dick had a much lighter look to him whereas Jason was far more dour. It wouldn’t have been an incorrect assumption, given that Bruce had adopted both of them during their respective childhoods.

Second, thanks to their hushed tones and body languages, that whatever they were doing with all those papers and Dick’s laptop was family business. What that meant to an onlooker could be up for debate, however. Again, the other baristas and casual observers wouldn’t have been wrong. “Where do you want to start,” Jason asked as his brother slid the stack of papers off of his laptop and across the table.

" You go through that pile and give me whatever looks relevant. I’ll add it to the file I’m building here,” he tapped the computer’s lid, “and we go from there. Otherwise, you going to tell me what’s going on?”

One brow raised, Jason shot back, “huh?”

“I know what Bruce said happened in Gotham. I know what the news said happened. I want to hear it from you and then I want to know why you came to Bludhaven. You’ve been here over a month, so yea,” Dick explained, drumming his fingers across the mouse’s touch pad. The computer thrummed to life a moment later and, without breaking eye contact, he typed in the requisite passwords. “Well?”

Snorting and rolling his eyes, Jason took a long drag on his coffee. The cold stimulant buying him time to formulate a polite, or at least less snarky, answer. He could do it. He could be nice to his brother. In theory at least, if not in practice. Before he could speak. Dick added one more caveat, “And not the G-rated version I’m sure you gave Amy either. Full disclosure.”

Jason glared hard over the rim of his cup-lid. Brows knit together, eyes narrowed, and an irritated growl vibrated from his throat. He didn’t want to give more than the G-rated, maybe PG, version of events in Gotham. That meant admitting, to people he actually liked, the extent of what he’d done. At the time things like dismembering drug cartel lieutenants had made complete sense. That using an RPG to push Black Mask over the edge and into unleashing Joker, all so Jason could get his hands on the clown, had been rational. Reasonable even. Now…he wasn’t so sure.

He still wholeheartedly believed that some criminals just needed to die. At the very least have their faces smashed in so badly their own mother’s wouldn’t recognize them. Also things he’d done during his return tour of Gotham. Nothing he’d done since coming to Bludhaven. It had a higher crime rate than Gotham, though most of that was organized crime and gangs instead of super villains – Penguin and Two-Face notwithstanding. He shrugged, finally setting his coffee down “Why do you care,” he demanded as Dick broke a piece off of the shared scone.

“You’re family. Look, I didn’t show up after our fight on the roof because I knew you wouldn’t give me reason to come hunt your ass down,” He paused, blue eyes wavering for a moment. One that he covered for by flicking them down to the computer screen. 

Snorting derisively, Jason looked down at the papers. The words were just a jumble of letters to him. “I came to Bludhaven to think. “ He sounded contemplative and, to a lesser extent, defeated. Giving voice to his reasons seemed to take all his bravado away, “I hacked the Batcave’s computer before I left, even before I went after Joker. So I knew, by the time I shot that RPG at Black Mask’s office, that Amy’d left Gotham and ended up here. Figured if I survived what happened with Bruce then I’d go to her. Of course I thought he might  _ actually _ shoot Joker and not pull that bull shit with the gun. Those burns, on top of all the contusions from digging myself out from under that building, SUCKED. So when my plans literally blew up in my face…I had nothing. No idea what I wanted to do. I mean, I took care of a couple loose ends related Black Mask helping the Joker escape Arkham, but otherwise I was gone. A ghost. Far as the world knows, Jason Todd died…six years ago now.”

“And what happened in Gotham before the shit in Crime Alley,” Dick asked, again. He couldn’t say that, if things had been reversed and he’d been killed by Joker, that he wouldn’t have been as revenge bent as Jason. One of the baristas called another patron’s name, a subtle reminder among the screaming milk steamers, chattering locals, and coffee-shop music that they were in public. That discretion was still the better part of valor. Or in their case, survival.

“What you heard about? What Bruce and the news said? Yea…that was me,” he sighed. “I did some worse shit than was reported; some of it I’m starting to regret. So I don’t really want to discuss it in detail. Ever.” There was a note of guilt, or shame, coloring the fringes of his otherwise stern tone. Searching his face, Dick could tell that he wasn’t going to get the lengthy explanation out of his brother that he wanted. Not without it ending in a fight. 

Skeptically, Dick pressured slightly, “And does she know?” 

Jason nodded slowly, cheeks visibly redder. “She knows enough,” he muttered, even Dick had trouble hearing him. The more he was asked, the less comfortable he became and suddenly Jason felt like he was being scolded by Alfred; not sitting across from the closest person he’d ever had to a brother. Sure, they’d come to blows growing up – what siblings didn’t – but they’d also always had one another’s backs.

“Okay. So what are you gonna do about it,” Dick asked bluntly.

“Huh?”

“What are you doing about yourself? About Amy?”

“I-I don’t know. I mean, I hadn’t even planned that far,” Jason shrugged, eyes finally focusing on the paper before him. The letters going from a hodgepodge pile of sticks and circles to actual words. “Farthest I’ve gotten is helping you guys with this,” he tapped the top page. It was an email between Falcone and Black Mask, supposedly encrypted. Until Oracle had gotten a hold of it. “After that…I don’t know.”

Dick groaned, struggling to keep his voice down and his tone calm, “Dude. You’re  _ living  _ with her. You can’t tell me you haven’t been –“

“I’m sleeping on her couch. The closest I’ve gotten to her, beyond some middle school hugs and pecks on the cheek was when I got shot. That’s also the last time we had any sort of conversation about…us. Or what passed for us before I…” he trailed off, voice low. He was hesitant to say that he’d died. It was something done automatically, nonchalantly when in his Red Hood gear. But out in public, without the protection of his helmet and body armor, he felt like an over exposed nerve. “Yea, we had a moment when I first showed up but…I don’t know. I just don’t.”

Dick opened his mouth to say something, then immediately thought better of it. Neither his younger brother nor his partner had been very good at the whole courtship thing. It had taken both Barb and Alfred intervening to convince them to take the plunge before Joker got his hands on Jason. That had been what, six months during their senior year of high school? For both Amy and Jason it was a lifetime ago, all things considered. Swallowing he finally found a string of words that didn’t make him sound like a complete jerk, “Give her time. I know how much she cares about you, and you clearly still care about her.” Jason looked up, almost plaintively, “You know what I mean.”

\--

Alfred set the kettle down between them, the green and white knit cozy brighter than either he or Amy remembered it being. Though against the stark colors and layout of the Batcave, even khaki was practically neon. “How are you handling Master Todd’s return,” he asked, breaking the silence that had settled over the entire property when they’d gone down to the cave.

Breathily she laughed, “Not well Alfred. Not well at all.” He nodded; she continued, eyes tracing the lines of steam that escaped her tea cup, “I always thought if, by some miracle, he returned that it’d be easy. Same as breathing. But…” Her brow furrowed briefly and it almost looked as if she was going to cry. “It’s not. We’re both falling over ourselves to be nice and friendly. It’s…”

“Awkward,” he offered. She nodded in turn. 

She swallowed, hands wrapping around the cup more tightly. This was part of their ritual: Once a month Amy made the trip to the Manor with the intention of spending the day, part of it at least, with Alfred. He’d suffered in silence after Jason’s death where the others had raged. Even when it was futile. Part of that meant he sent her back to Bludhaven with a number of first aid kits, even if she and Dick didn’t need them. This time, her Supply Run would include some new armor for Jason to replace the ruined pants he’d been shot in. A project the Briton had undertaken without Bruce’s knowledge or permission. They were as much his children as they were Bruce’s. 

“Miss Flynn,” he began, a grandfatherly smile on his face, “You and Master Todd were thick as thieves, one another’s shadows. That’s not a bond which can be easily erased, no matter what has transpired or how much time has passed.” 

The tea was hot, not scalding, but still hot enough to hurt when she took a sip. There was a time when that had been the point; she’d at least felt  **something** as it burned the length of her esophagus till it reached her stomach. Now, it was just careless. “Mmm. And we are still.…in the field. There it’s like nothing’s changed, no time’s passed. In private…ah…um...the most familiar we’ve been was when he was shot a few weeks back. Don’t know that either of us even knows how to have that conversation. I bloody well don’t,” she chattered, running her burnt tongue across her front teeth.

“You must find a way or it will, inevitably, spill over into your work in the field I fear,” Alfred cautioned, sliding a small cup of ice across the table to the young woman. He’d known her well enough and watched her grief long enough to realize that she’d burned the inside of her mouth. “You both deserve better than that.” He was tired of seeing the children he cared for, the closest he had to children and grandchildren, as spent and used as they had been the last few years. Tired of watching them walk this world in varying degrees of anguish.

Letting out a soft sigh he continued, “You will find a way Miss Flynn, you and Master Todd both. Cliche and motherly though it may sound, perhaps it is best to let your heart lead when your head is not up to task?” That at least elicited a contemplative nod from the Irish girl as she popped one of the offered ice cubes in her mouth.

\--

“C’mere,” Dick instructed. His back was to a wall, protecting the computer screen from the outside world. Exhausted and sore Jason practically creaked when he stood. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been sitting in these godawful chairs but it had been at least long enough to make even his ass go numb. “This is…not good,” the older vigilante muttered.

Almost as soon as his eyes levelled with the images and data on the screen, Jason’s stomach dropped. “Not good is an understatement,” his tone was flat, almost emotionless. Black Mask wasn’t just partnering with Falcone and Maroni to expand their enterprises in Bludhaven. He –  _ They _ – had hired an assassin from the League of Assassins to deal with what they called their vermin infestation. A man the files referred to Deathstroke; a man whose reputation was infamous The three vigilantes were, with particular emphasis on Red Hood, to be terminated with extreme prejudice. His hire had been arranged by the Intermediary, about whom almost nothing was listed beyond what turned out to be an anonymous dark web bank account.

Reading all of that, following the path of Black Mask’s decisions on paper made Jason want to vomit. “We need to go,” he whispered, finally finding his voice again. They had to warn Amy, or at least bring her up to speed. More importantly they needed to prepare for the veritable war heading their way.

His phone vibrated across the table. Reaching for it, Jason caught it with his fingertips before it could take a nose-dive towards the floor. On the notifications tab, a message from their absent third beamed at him  _ Leaving for the apt. Text you when I get in.  _ He sent a thumbs up back, swallowing hard. Since Ra’s had been responsible for Jason’s resurrection, it stood to reason that other, maybe all, members of the League knew the identities of Batman and his allies. Though Jason really hoped only Bruce, Dick, and himself were compromised. If they weren’t, things were about to become significantly more complicated. 

“I’ll talk to Oracle. See if there’s anything she can dig up on Deathstroke or this Intermediary,” Dick was hesitant to ask her for this kind of help. The more he pulled Barbara into this situation, the more help she gave them, meant that more of a target had been painted on her as well. Where the League was concerned, they could never really be sure it wouldn’t all blow up in their faces. “You get Amy up to speed,” he said. 

Jason swallowed, nodding. He was looking at his phone screen, suddenly the message he was typing out for Amy seemed less important. A long slow breath escaped him as he deleted the frantic words, a question about dinner. One he’d started as a way to burn off nervous energy. Instead he wrote,  _ Meet you there Irish. Ride safe. Please. _ Without a second though he brushed his thumb over the send button. “I have a couple contacts I can talk to as well. Will take me some time to track ‘em down.”

“Do it, and no killing,” Dick warned. All kindness gone from his voice. “We have to be better than these guys.”


	6. Chapter 6

Strolling out of the shadows, nonchalantly turning one of his pistols over in his hands, Red Hood chuckled, “Well well. If it isn’t Owen Selkirk, how ya been buddy?”

The lanky blonde man gasped nervously, taking a few awkward steps away from the heavily armed and armored vigilante. “Red Hood…ahaaa haaa…wha-what do ye want?!” He stammered, eyes wide and heart racing - according to the telemetry feed on Red Hood’s helmet. The last time Red Hood and Owen Selkirk had any dealings it had ended with a shattered knee cap for the former IRA money man and information broker.

The vigilante chuckled, popping the ammo clip out of his side arm. Looking it over as part of a languid inspection of the firearm. “We both know you’re well aware of the new players on your…team,” voice ominous despite his apparent focus on the fire arm. Both knew he meant criminals and members of the proverbial underworld. “I want to know what you know.” The grin in his voice was audible. Under his helmet, the Red Hood watched the scans of Selkirk. According to the readouts he was more than nervous, he was panicked, and high. “Look,” he added as Selkirk fidgeted, “I am not in the mood to beat it out of you. May just start shooting though.”

A few minutes passed and the man said nothing, only increasing the distance between himself and the Red Hood. Further into the shadows that filled the majority of the alleyway. Not that there would’ve been much light from the half vacant apartments in either building. He laughed nervously, “What makes you think I know anything Red? C’mon mate, I…I knew better than to do anything to get on your radar. Besides, I thought we were even after what ‘appened in Amsterdam.”

His head snapped up, he slammed the clip back into his sidearm, and the Red Hood’s entire body went taught. He was predator in every sense of the word with that change; eyes narrowed and jaw clenched tight behind the red helmet. With a forced sigh, nostrils flared, Red Hood waved his free hand, “Look. I’m tired Selkirk. You still owe me for **not** putting you in the ground with all your friends.” He leaned towards the Irishman, panic and fear painted a path across his face. The vigilante used his six feet and 200 pounds of Lazarus pit enhanced muscle to his advantage. “Now, I need you to pay up. Recent events Selkirk, not old news.”

“Aye...uh…what...what de ye need,” Selkirk stammered, backing further from Red Hood. Only stopping when his back was pressed against a dumpster in the alleyway. They were partly in the open, despite the shadows that cloaked them from the majority of onlookers.

“League of Assassins sent someone here, Deathstroke,” the words made Selkirk’s blood run cold and caused the color to drain from his face. “You’re also going to tell me about the Intermediary.” He tried to back pedal farther but the dumpster remained an impediment.

Selkirk shook his head emphatically, “Nope. No! You shouldn’t ask me about ‘im! Either of ‘em! Deathstroke is a nightmare made manifest and the Intermediary, he…just no. Unuh. If you don’t know who he is, consider yerself lucky.” Whoever this Intermediary was, he scared Owen Selkirk more than Deathstroke did – and Red Hood had seen evidence and the fallout of the mercenary’s work. The kind of rumors that even made him blush.

“Selkirk,” he growled, pointing the firearm at the Irishman’s knees, “Not. In. A Mood.”

Yelping and flinching, Owen Selkirk cowered, bringing his arms up over his face and head. “Deathstroke! I can tell ye about him! Ahh!”

“Well I do love a good story,” Wren chirped, dropping heavily onto the lid of the dumpster a matter of inches from Selkirk’s head. Her hands rested on her hips as she looked between the Red Hood and Selkirk. “It seems we know all the same people.” She was grinning, winking at the gun wielding vigilante. The situation visibly and thoroughly amused her – despite scaring Selkirk so hard he shrieked and practically leapt into Red Hood’s arms. It would have surprised neither of the pair if their apparently shared informant turned out to have wet himself from the fright. 

“Dude, not so close,” the firearm wielding man chastised. Immediately, Selkirk took long harried strides away from Red Hood. Standing in the middle of the alleyway made him the third point of a triangle between the duo. He was keeping an eye on Red Hood, the side arm still in his hand.

Hopping off the dumpster, Wren crossed to Selkirk. The old Irishman was drawn, weathered from years of running with the IRA. From the years spent in the Belfast shipyards - both before and after the death of his friend Michael Flynn. She put a hand on his shoulder as Red Hood closed in, the helmeted man spoke in her place, “Deathstroke. What do you know.” He pointed the firearm at Selkirk’s face.

“That’s not necessary Hood,” Wren rolled her eyes, free hand resting on the Red Hood’s forearm. Gently she pushed the gun down and away from their informant. “So, what do you say? Tell us about him?” She was playing her best version of good cop. Or sweet and innocent, either way it made him groan and roll his eyes. But it did work on Selkirk.

Nodding, suddenly pliant and less frightened, the Irishman started, “Deathstroke’s one o’their best. An American, uses one o’ those Japanese swords.” He waved a hand like there was a blade clutched in it. “But ‘e’s also skilled with those,” he pointed to Red Hood’s side arm. Selkirk was notorious for telling all without outright giving anything away. Looking around the alley, it seemed almost like he had been waiting for someone to come upon them.

Then it happened.

Thanks to his helmet’s telemetry, Red Hood knew the sniper round was hurtling towards them a heartbeat before it hit home. As he pulled Wren back out of the way, the round pierced Owen Selkirk’s throat like a paring knife to butter. Wren herself barely had time to turn her head and cover her face before arterial spray splashed across her. Another one flew past, this time slamming into Selkirk’s chest. He crumpled to the ground in a bloody pile. 

Red Hood pulled Wren back around the dumpster, searching the alleyway for anyone else. “Stay back,” he hissed.

“No, I have to get him,” she cried out, trying to scramble over Red Hood’s legs and out of his grip. “I have to…” she was frantic, almost breathless, blood on her chest, forearms, throat, and hair. Blood that didn’t belong to her. 

“Stay here, I got this,” he growled, setting her down harder than he meant and diving out from behind the dumpster. A round missed him, cutting into the side of the dumpster as he looped his arms under Selkirk’s. Starting backwards, dragging him, he grunted, another round whizzing over his head and into the wall before they disappeared into cover. “Got him,” he rested the bloody man on the ground and tucked back as far as he could.

Helmet telemetry, analyzing the trajectory of the rounds told him they were out of range. From wherever their would-be sniper was, the dumpster was enough to keep them out of sight. “Shit,” Red Hood cursed, pressing his back against the heavy dumpster. He was weighing his options – did he risk sticking his head out or did he and Wren risk their lives to flee. Or, third option, did they wait until they could reasonably presume the coast was clear. None of them were great choices. 

Behind him, tucked fully out of sight, Wren had pulled Owen Selkirk up so his head rested on her knees.

“Owen,” she whispered, “Owen don’t you give up on me.” The words fell on deaf ears. Owen Selkirk was gone. That second round has pierced his pericardium then his heart muscle. He stared blankly up at her masked face. His eyes going from deep brown to cold gray as the color drained, blood pooling around them. 

Still crouched, Red Hood called to her, “We need to go little bird.” She nodded, reluctant to leave the old man behind. But she knew Red Hood wouldn’t tell her they needed to leave if it weren’t vital. Quietly she placed the dead Irishman’s hands on his chest. 

With as much speed as they could muster, Red Hood and Wren took off sprinting down the alley. Reaching back with his free hand, Red Hood caught the closest of hers. As they fled, it was the best he could do to comfort his friend.

\--

Up on a rooftop, two buildings over and well above the apartments that made the alleyway where Wren and the Red Hood had been, a man unfolded himself from his hiding place. He was clad in a shade of blue that, when light hit it, had a metallic appearance. Almost like one expected of the dragon scales in fantasy tales and fairy stories to produce. He grinned behind a half face mask and dark glasses – despite the near starless night. “Well,” voice devoid of emotions, “This is going to be an excellent hunt.”

Another man reclined close by, his black and orange two tone suit somewhere between ninja and special forces. He warned, “Don’t get cocky.”

\--

“I am not having this conversation right now. I am bruised, bloodied, and want a shower,” she snapped, throwing her hands up in the air. To say that having her late-father’s best friend die in front of her, his blood sticking in her hair and across her uniform, had upset Amy would be an understatement. Jason wasn’t sure if she was angry, exhausted, or just generally upset over the entire situation. That didn’t mean, however, that she hadn’t been angry at Jason for going off on his own without so much as a word to meet the informant he could find.

He pulled off his helmet, setting it down on the kitchen table and shot back, “I was trying to protect you! His death...it wasn’t my fault!”

“I don’t care! Selkirk...he-he was family once! You should’ve told me! If you’d done that then...then maybe he wouldn't have died,” her voice was raised, overwhelmed with what he could only presume was a combination of grief and nerves. Jason knew she was right, even as she turned her back to him and stormed out of the living room and kitchen area, he could admit at least that. No matter what role Selkirk had had in the organization that led to the death of Amy’s father, he didn’t deserve to die the way he did. In an alley as, he presumed, a warning for the three Bludhaven vigilantes.

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Jason started the long process of peeling out of his uniform. Everything needed to be washed. Carefully he stepped into the kitchen, tossing his gloves in with hers in the otherwise empty sink. “You can be angry but we,” he realized the water was running. Confused he looked at the faucet, it was off. “Shower,” he grumbled, shaking his head. He could feel the blood and grime caught in his own locks. In another life he’d have probably sprinted back there to join her, now…everything felt like he was swimming through mud. He knew better than anyone that not talking to her could get one, or both, of them killed. Not a thing he planned to let happen.

“I am a colossal ass,” he muttered, peeling out of his jacket and draping it over one arm. With the other he swung open the door for the under-sink cabinet. There he found a section of plastic sheeting. Laying it out with a flourish on the kitchen floor he stepped into the center of the 6 feet x 3 feet sheet. He set down his jacket gently, pushing up the sleeves of his compression shirt when he did.

Crouching, his fingers working the knots and buckles of his boots free. Their run home had removed most of the blood and other detritus, but until he’d had a chance to clean them it was a better idea to let them sit. Sighing heavily he yanked off one boot, losing his balance and almost crashing heavily to his knees. That would be a great way to end the evening - concussed or with a sprained ankle on the kitchen floor. Grumbling as he caught himself Jason cursed. A few agonizing minutes later both boots stood on the plastic along with his weapons, his pants, and the armored vest over his undershirt.

Even his socks were abandoned on the tarp.

What he found when he walked into the bedroom was the Wren costume in a pile on the floor. Amy had laid a towel out in lieu of tarp. Hesitantly, Jason put his hand on the door. He was surprised and strangely relieved to discover it unlocked. Pushing it open enough that he could just see into the bathroom, Jason caught a glimpse of her disappearing behind the shower curtain. “I know you’re angry but...would you please hear me out?”

Exasperation escaped her, “Ye may as well get in here.” He could hear water cascading to the tub floor and the sound of scrubbing.

He slipped into the bathroom, the steam starting to accumulate from her shower was welcoming. The bathroom was longer than it was wide. Awkwardly he sat on the toilet lid “You have every right to be upset Irish. But I need you to trust me. You know as well as I do that the League killed him to _get to us_. We’ve always had each other’s backs and I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize that” He was on a roll, “Irish, you…you’re my best friend,” his voice went low, “You’re so much more than that and I won’t let anything happen to you.”

She stuck her head out around the curtain, hair soaked through falling in a wavy curtain over her exposed shoulder. Save for the exhaust fan, it was silent in the bathroom. She’d turned off the water. Snatching a towel off the rod hanging to her left, Amy looked him over thoughtfully. “I guess we’re having _this_ conversation,” her voice was barely a whisper.

Quickly as she’d appeared, Amy disappeared back behind the curtain.

“Wait…what conver…oh,” Jason caught up with her. Realizing exactly what had come out of his mouth. “Yea…I guess we are.”

Climbing wholly out of the shower, towel wrapped around her like a tube dress, Amy pointed behind her, “Wash and talk.” He started to protest but she cut him off, shaking her towel wrapped head, “You are no less bloody than I was, you can clean up and talk.” 

“Fine,” he acquiesced. Peeling out of his compression shorts and shirt, he had to hide the grin behind his hand when Amy turned beet red. She’d clearly forgotten that he’d have to strip in order to actually shower. A fact he reveled in silently as he paraded past her. The grin finally won as he stepped around his friend and disappeared behind the shower curtain. Flipping the water on, he grimaced – it started out ice cold, despite only being off a few minutes. “Ahthatscold,” he grunted, the water warming as it continued to fall. 

Looking out through a clear section of the curtain, he watched Amy hop up on the bathroom counter. Presumably swinging her legs back and forth as she toweled off her hair. “You were in the middle of a thought,” she called to him over the dun. 

Squirting shampoo into his hands he worked it in his hair. The lather turning pink as it streamed down his body and down to the drain at his feet. “Maybe it’s your turn first,” he countered, cursing softly as some of the suds ended up in his eyes. 

“Losing my da’ was hard. Losing you…was so much worse. You were…are…my best friend Jay and I loved you. Still do. It took me a lot longer than it should have to voice those words. The last several weeks I…we…seem to have taken for granted how easily we got on.” She was looking down at her hands, the damp hair towel clutched between them as her partially dry hair fell in a messy wave of dark curls over her right shoulder. Swallowing she continued, “Dick was right, when he said ye’d have to be blind to see how I care about you.”

Clearing his throat, Jason jumped in before she could continue, “You took the words outta my mouth Irish.” The water shut off, “So, I have a question for you then,” he began; Amy looked at him, running a brush through her hair. She nodded. “Where do we go from here then Irish? Because I want my girl back.”

It was like the air had been sucked out of the room. Every noise – from the sound of the brush going through her hair to their hearts doing gymnastics – was almost painful. Though the steam haze she couldn’t see how anxious Jason was behind the shower curtain. There was some hope he had the same problem discerning the shade of pink the other vigilante had turned. Letting a long slow breath out, she slid off the counter. “I want my guy back,” she echoed, tying her hair in a low, loose ponytail as she cast an almost expectant look at Jason Todd.

Pushing the curtain open, Jason leaned out, bracing himself against that stupid portable bench. The second full size towel, the one he’d been using, hung just out of his normal reach. Normally he had the sense to move it. Catching it, he yanked…and brought the towel bar down with it. “Shit,” he cursed. Amy laughed. “Yea, you think it’s funny, I’m gonna have to reinstall it,” He groaned, standing back up before he lost his balance and careened forward onto the hard tile floor. Bath mats would do nothing to cushion his fall.

Regaining his balance he could hear her giggling. “I’ll, um…be in there,” she nodded to the bedroom, “While you regain your dignity love,” her voice was so much lighter than it had been in the weeks that passed since their mildly violent reunion. The door clicked shut behind her and Jason scrambled to get himself out of the confines of the shower and dried off. 

\--

Jason pushed the bathroom door open, the towel loosely wrapped around his hips. It was taking everything he had not the grin like an idiot. This wasn’t how he’d planned things, not by a long shot. Was even more than he’d hoped for in all honesty. But here he was, barefoot, hair still wet, taking deliberate strides across to the bed. Where Amy sat, book in hand partially changed into an over-sized tee shirt and underwear. 

A deep breath and he scooped Amy up by the waist. Nearly sending her book crashing to the ground in the process. It didn’t matter. She laughed from the surprise. Foreheads resting against one another he whispered, “You have no idea how much I missed you.” The strange emptiness he’d felt the last five years, the longing for his life back - the parts and people that had mattered - gave force to those words. 

She kissed him. Her book landed on the nightstand. The soft thunk it made synced with the moment she pulled away for breath. His tongue darted across his lips, warmth spreading through him. For the first time in years, though times uncountable since coming to Bludhaven, things felt right. “I miss you too Jaybird,” her voice soft, nose bumping against his.

That undid him. He covered her lips with his again, taking in the taste, smell, and feel all while the world fell away. Determined to relearn every inch of her that he’d known before his murder then to get acquainted with the parts he hadn’t yet known.


	7. Chapter 7

The sun trickling in through the partially open curtains was an unwelcome wake up call. A grumble vibrated in his throat as he cracked his eyes open. Tucked in next to him, her head pillowed on his chest, Amy sighed in her sleep. When she snuggled up closer, he grinned. Okay, seeing her like that, the sun could be forgiving for needling him out of some much needed sleep. He closed his arm around her, thumb stroking a trail the length of her lower back. She was soft and warm and  **there** . Something he hadn’t really thought possible, despite the fact that he’d come crashing back into her life (and those of all their friends) like a meteor.

She grumbled, “Stupid sun.” The light had crossed over her eyes the moment she moved closer to Jason.

“Good morning,” he laughed softly. Even before joining the ranks of Gotham’s vigilante superheroes, the Irish girl had a well-documented hatred of mornings. Witnessing it first-hand this way, was enough to make him forget, for a moment, everything they had yet to do and the danger they were in.

Looking up at him, eyes half open, Amy smiled, “Mornin’ handsome.” Her hair was loose, tumbling haphazardly around her face and shoulders, hair tie lost somewhere in the sheets or on the floor. It was a small thing to be proud of and it made him grin before leaning in, Jason planted a kiss on her forehead. “Do we ‘ave to get up,” she yawned.

“Sadly,” he confirmed. Wetting his lips with his tongue, nerves bleeding into his words, “So…we’re good right?” He wanted so desperately to stay there, run his hands through her hair and not worry about the men paid to kill them. Or any other sins of their pasts that deigned to interfere.

“Yea, we’re good love.” 

That small confirmation was more than he expected. A smile spread across his face and Jason pressed a kiss to her forehead.

\--

They stood on the rusted fire escape, Red Hood’s arms crossed over his chest, back pressed against the brick wall. For a day that had started out so fantastically, he was really not enjoying himself right now. “Your face’ll get stuck like that,” Wren teased softly, casting a quick glance in his direction. All the while she worked the lock open on the window, using a combination of magnets and pry tools. The easiest and least destructive way for them to open the old apartment complex’s windows. 

He’d been tasked with keeping an eye out for their sniper or anyone else suspicious. Well, more suspicious than the two of them. The fewer people who knew that they’d been there the better. 

“You can’t even see my face babe,” he reminded, tapping the section of mask directly over his nose.

Shrugging, the lock gave way with a delightful click. “Details, details. …And we’re in,” she smiled, tucking away her tools. It took nominal effort, despite having been nearly painted shut, for her to push the window up enough, giving them room to slip under and inside the apartment. Careful not to kick or knock the screen they’d set on the fire escape’s landing, Wren ducked under the window first. Each foot hitting the floor quietly, one at a time. Pivoting and tip-toeing adeptly until she was a few steps in what turned out to be the living room. Red Hood followed suit; reaching down to check his firearms as he moved. Making sure they didn’t scrape or knock anything on his way in.

“So you’re an ex-IRA money launderer, intelligence broker, and all around bad guy, where do you keep the dossiers you don’t want people seeing,” Red Hood asked the otherwise empty room. He scanned the room as he came up beside Wren. She’d collected the stack of mail off what had been Owen Selkirk’s coffee table. “Anything interesting?”

She shook her head. It was all bills. Some envelopes stamped as past due. Others were solicitations – credit cards, car loans, magazines. The usual junk that most people chucked in the bin without a second thought. There wasn’t anything, to Wren’s eyes at least, that even looked like someone had attempted to disguise something important as junk mail. “Um…da’ used to say that Selkirk would hide things in furniture. Thumb drives, CDs, that sort of thing. Didn’t keep hard copies,” she remembered, setting the stack of mail back in its void on the coffee table. 

The apartment was extremely nice for someone they’d understood to be barely getting by. A large, industrial-modern layout, in one of the more gentrified neighborhoods of Bludhaven – rusted out, likely unusable in an emergency - fire escape aside. “What about an SD card in a flower pot,” he asked, making his way quietly towards the kitchen. The throw-rug laden wood floors were strangely out of place against the rest of its built in theme. Between that and the living/dining area, the apartment was easily larger than the “luxury” apartment Wren lived in. “We should move here,” he suggested, picking up the fake African Violets on the counter.

“Hah,” she’d knelt next to the couch, running her fingers along it’s long frame looking for anything out of place, “Right. I am not spending nearly four thousand dollars in rent monthly.”

Nothing. He set the plant down and started on the knife block, “C’mon. We could fit a real armory in one of these, I could get rid of my place in Gotham.”

Looking over her shoulder, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed she snorted, “No. I mean…yes, we should probably condense to one place, but no. Not moving to a money pit like this.” She inched along the frame, rounding it’s far corner and checking the arms. “Damn.” Rocking back on her heels, Wren took a quick accounting of the furniture: coffee table, couch, chaise lounge, dining room table and chairs (a four seater), server, TV stand/entertainment center. In the living and dining room alone they could be at this for hours.

“What,” he asked, distracted from his search. So far the flower pots – there were two additional - and both the knife and butcher’s blocks had come up empty. He had a cabinet open, it looked to be the spice and dry good storage. Diligently checking for a false wall or some other cabinetry hidey hole that was out of the ordinary. “Wren,” he called, brow raised behind the mask as he looked in her direction. At best the top of her head was in his line of sight. “You okay over there?

The only response was an exasperated groan. “That bad,” he joked. She glared back at him for a moment. 

It was the kind of exchange the two had mastered when he was Robin. Whole conversations using half as many words as either his predecessor or Batman. Where the latter was concerned that was a feat in and of itself. As she rolled up to full height, Wren rubbed her temples. “Okay,” she started, trying orally thinking through the problem at hand, “I’m hiding a thumb drive or other memory storage device. I don’t want it to be obvious to anyone else, but it needs to be easily accessible to me. Where do I put it.”

“Where do you work most,” Red Hood offered. He’d started towards the bed room. There was no desk out in that main open concept room. If there was one in there, given Selkirk’s age, it was likely he’d work  _ at _ one instead of on a couch or in the kitchen. If not…well they’d have to rethink the idea. 

He reached the open door as she answered, “Someplace I can see what’s going on around me.”

“So not the bedroom?”

“Probably not.”

“Well, my idea’s shot then,” he shrugged, turning back to face the room. That was the moment he saw it, the one thing out of place in the whole apartment – their search notwithstanding. “Wren, look at his entertainment center’s placement.” He nodded, clarifying when she shot him a look over her shoulder, “If he’s sitting in this room, then he can see outside, no problem. Both the balcony and fire escape are accessible .” The larger, multi piece, entertainment center was centered in such a way that it almost guaranteed he’d watch everything except what was on the screen. Lots of places to hide even something as large as, perhaps, an external hard drive. “Thinking maybe he tucked it in there somewhere.

Before Wren could answer, they heard the sound of deadbolt tumblers clicking and falling. Red Hood dropped behind the big couch in the center of the room while Wren took cover on the far side of the recliner. What sounded like the bolt disengaging and the smaller knob lock clicking was surprisingly loud in the apartment. Even with the area rugs and curtains. Shifting so he could see around the corner of the couch’s arm, Red Hood drew the weapon in his left holster. He clicked off the safety as the door swung open and took aim.

The door swung open, just wide enough for a man to tuck inside the apartment. His black combat suit, accented with blue bird emblazoned across his chest visible for a brief moment. 

“Dude I almost shot you,” Red Hood snapped, pulling back his weapon. The safety’s soft click enough to ease some of the tension in the room. Silence, thick and uncomfortable, settled around them. Red Hood holstered his gun, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and shrugged.

Nightwing spoke quickly, hearing the snap of the strap that held the gun in place, “Thanks for not doing that.” They all knew the helmet concealed the glare that Red Hood shot at him. The black and blue clad man moved farther into the room, “And thanks for the dead body buddy, super thrilled to find out about it over police scanners.”

“Wasn’t me,” Red Hood sighed, shaking his head. “Bro, if I’d shot him, you’d know.” Of course, if he’d been responsible for Selkirk’s death not only would Wren have been no where the deed but the police wouldn’t have tripped over the Irishman’s body. No one would have. Hell, last he heard no one had found the bodies of the Gotham drug lieutenants he’d…handled.

The laughter from the elder vigilante echoed in the apartment. Both Red Hood and Wren flinched. Unlikely though it was to attract attention, the prospect of being caught made the trio uncomfortable. “I figured that much,” Nightwing clarified after he recovered from his bout of the giggles. He was still tense, like he knew something he wasn’t sharing with either his brother or partner. “But you were there. That makes you both –“

“It was Deathstroke,” Red Hood presumed, “Had to be. The precision of the shots that took out Selkirk were professional. Hell, even the shots that missed us had to be. Not like I’m a small target.”

Wren rolled her eyes, rocking heel to toe, “You’re not wrong love.”

“You were there,” Nightwing concluded, turning his masked glare on Wren.

Red Hood answered in her stead, “Turns out one of my two informants, was also one of hers. We figured if Deathstroke was willing to off Selkirk then he had to have known something. About the mission or the Intermediary. Hell, he was terrified of the latter.”

Hanging his head and groaning, Nightwing pinched the bridge of his nose. Jason and Amy were likely to be the death of him. Not because they’d get him killed but because they’d frustrate him into an early grave. He could deduce, without much effort, that the others had come to this apartment in order to look for information about Deathstroke. Maybe get lucky and find something on the Intermediary as well. “Well shit,” he groaned finally, “How can I help?”

“We were about to dismantle that,” Wren thumbed over her shoulder at the entertainment center. “We could use a second set of hands and…if you’re keyed into the police scanners, a heads up when they’re headed this way.”

Waving a hand at the pair, he shooed them towards the entertainment center. “Let’s get this over with and get outta here.” With that they descended on the entertainment center, both boys looking for any sort of secondary or hidden compartments in the furniture itself. Wren sorted through the DVDs, video games, and CDs in the central console. They were arranged alphabetically and by media type – the peculiarity made Wren’s eyes cross.

Red Hood’s fingers traced along a section at the back of the tower closest to the bed room. He heard the click as he hit one of the pegs supporting the shelf one of the gaming consoles was on. Selkirk owned several – at least one from each generation. It almost made him jealous…almost. “What have we here,” he practically purred, a section of shelf sliding out like a smart phone’s SIM tray. Delicately he caught it between his thumb and forefinger, drawing out the tray until it was in his palm. The other two stopped, Wren leaning back and Nightwing moved around the exterior tower.

“Care to share little brother,” he enquired.

“Jackpot.”

Wren reached out, palm up. Expectantly she waited for Jason to drop the memory card into her hand. “Well, c’mon then,” she sighed, brow furrowed. 

“We can look at them later. Like when we’re at home and, and as big bird so astutely pointed out, not rifling around a dead man’s apartment,” he flipped the memory card along his fingers from index to pinky then it disappeared into his jacket. If only the others could’ve seen his grin. The Red Hood was exceptionally pleased with the move - even if the sour expressions painted across Wren and Nightwing’s faces showed they weren’t. All despite their masks, of course. 

Nightwing’s shoulders slumped.The others knew that the memory chip was well concealed. Safe even, at least for now. “Put the tray back, we should get out of here. Sounds like the cops are going to be here any moment. I dunno about you two but I have no desire to have to explain myself.” He was scanning the police channels quietly, Bludhaven’s finest were on their way. Headed to search the apartment, as the trio had expected. They could almost hear the cars rolling up outside.

Slipping the tray into the shelf back where he’d found it, Red Hood nodded knowingly. He couldn’t argue Nightwing’s observation - though a part of him wanted to. Wanted to point out that, thanks to their group’s training, it would be simple for them to evade the police even if they were in the apartment when they arrived. “So…your place then,” He looked to Wren as she rolled up to her feet. Nodding, she stretched and marched over to the still raised fire escape window.

“C’mon boys,” she beckoned, slipping out onto the rusted metal fire escape.

\--

The trio moved with purpose around the apartment. Jason checking the door and window locks, closing the curtains as each passed inspection. Without the security offered by the Batcave, they had to improvise. Dick was helping by doing a sweep for any sort of surveillance devices; paranoia ran in the family it seemed. “Anything,” the younger man called, tossing his heavy jacket onto the back of the big couch.

A thumbs up flashed his way. 

“We’re good,” Amy called to the two from the bed room.

Walking into the room, Jason nodded. He asked, looking over his shoulder for a moment, “You sure about this babe?” He was nervous about going over the information in his – their – home. The place was supposed to be a safe haven and if there was anything on the SD card that could be used to track it back to their possession...well, the potential ramifications made his stomach turn. “Amy, seriously.”

“Not like we have any other options,” she sighed, collecting small floral canvas pouch from inside her desk. “We physically take it to Oracle, they may end up tracking her down. We can’t exactly  _ use  _ the Batcave,” Bruce had returned from whatever trip he was on and Jason vehemently refused the suggestion during the trio’s trek back to Amy’s apartment. Yes, the Batcomputer likely had the requisite anti-spy and malware suites to ensure their safety without question but it also meant going to Bruce. It meant asking for his help with something they were collectively certain they could handle. And, when it came to his foundlings, the Batman had a nasty habit of overstepping his bounds and taking over.

“Dick’s laptop, your apartment, god I hope this doesn’t…,” Jason trailed off, face going from resigned to irritated all at once. “Y’know what, no. If I say it we’re jinxed and I’m in no mood to risk it.” The comment got Amy to laugh. It was enough to turn the night around, at least until he could collapse into the bed next to her and call it done. Something he was looking forward to more than usual after the previous night/morning.

From the living room, Dick’s voice carried like an auditory battering ram, “You guys coming?” They could hear him messing up the blankets and pillows that had been Jason’s makeshift bed.

“Ungh,” Jason groaned, tossing his head back. There was a part of him that just wanted to die...again. Okay, maybe not literally.

Rocking up on her tiptoes, Amy planted a kiss on his check, two-days-worth of stubble tickling her lips and nose. “C’mon,” she whispered. “Sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can get to bed,” there was encouragement in her tone, helped by the wink tossed over her shoulder.

They found themselves in the living room, gathered around the coffee table and Dick Grayson’s laptop. “Shall we,” Dick asked, catching the bag of cords and adapters that Amy chucked across the room at him. It was almost a shame that he’d been fast enough to catch them.

“I don’t like this, at all,” arms cross over his chest, Jason sank down into the couch, his brother having taken the armchair. Heavily he propped his feet up on the coffee table, crossing them as Amy cautiously stepped over the impromptu barrier. He chuckled as his friend produced a strip of electrical tape from her utility belt and slapped it over the lens of the webcam. It wasn’t a perfect solution to ensuring that the webcam would be blind, but it was what they had.

Leaning back, calves hitting Jason’s left leg, she yawned, “Consider it covering our asses.”

“Then how are we –“ 

“Hey guys,” Barbara’s voice chirped through Jason’s phone. He’d taken the liberty of calling Oracle. It was almost a relief to hear the computer generated voice of Barbara’s current alter-ego. If they weren’t about to ask her for all kinds of technological favors. Turning the device to face them, the other two could see her face – well the avatar used to hide her identity - staring back at them. He’d turned off the WiFi before initiating the video call with their friend. “You!” She snapped at Jason,” We are going to have a long conversation when all this is done. Understood?”

He swallowed hard, nodding. “Yes ma’am.” Everyone knew better than to argue with or otherwise test Barbara Gordon. She was a force to be reckoned with all on her own and kept the family – the Robins mostly – in check. She also had a way of putting the fear of god into the boys, only seldom needing to take action or make good on her threats. “Missed you too Oracle,” he added after a moment, setting the phone down so the others could more easily see the screen and she them.

“Hey Oracle,” Dick chimed in, a laugh on his lips at the reaction she’d inspired in Jason. “We got these SD memory cards. Think you could review them remotely through one of the cloud servers if I hook ‘em up to my laptop?”

With a huff she asked, “Yes. Now why am I not there…or you three here…so we could do this in person? The cloak and dagger would put Batman to shame.”

Dropping onto the couch, legs stretched over Jason’s lap, Wren explained, “They came from the home of a known information broker, he happened to be shot down by the League less than 24 hours ago so there’s some concern about overall security. We’re trying to use as few integrated systems as possible to minimize being potentially compromised.”

“Well someone paid attention,” She praised, voice projecting the smile they couldn’t see. Barbara however, was still able to see the faces of her three friends. She laughed softly when Dick covered his face with his palm, frustrated at the culmination of the week’s events. Jason was still cringing under the subtle threat and Amy had a childlike grin on her face, practically preening at Barbara’s words. “Okay, so do you have the adapter and WiFi scrambler I gave you?” Amy and Dick nodded.

Nightwing answered, “They’re already set up Oracle.” 

“Okay, give me a few minutes.” They could hear her typing away, keys clacking on her computer, at the other end of the phone. Dick shifted so the others could see the screen of his laptop as well. Windows opened and closed, the cursor flew between programs to the point that it was like watching a humming bird flit between blossoms. It was practically mesmerizing and the nearly half an hour she needed seemed like no more than a few breaths. “And done.”

Jason ventured, “Want to enlighten us plebeians?”

“I transferred the contents of the memory cards to a secured cloud server and scrubbed the physical cards. I wouldn’t put them in a phone or camera but you can get rid of them without having to worry about anything being compromised or potentially traced back even to Selkirk. Don’t put copies of the files on your machines either. I have extra security on them in the server.” Even if she could guarantee the files and memory cards were clean, that was no reason to take any extra risks.

Dick thanked her, tapping the screen on Jason’s phone to end the call when the former Batgirl signed off. He began clicking around the files on the drive, brow furrowed as he scanned through a PDF. “We’re gonna be here a while,” he sighed finally. “There’s…a lot on this drive.”

“I’ll start the coffee,” groaned Jason. None of them were thrilled with the fact that they were losing the likelihood of a good night’s sleep (or any) to yet another review of documents. This time, however, they didn’t even have the luxury of being able to do it at their individual leisure. 

Hours ticked by, the trio having to settle for mirrored screens across cheap tablets Dick kept on hand. The kinds of things he’d drop off at Barbara’s to be scrubbed and recycled. Jason took a long drag from his coffee cup, his blue eyes almost glazing over as he stared at the screen. There had to be something worth their time and effort on these drives. Something that made Selkirk’s death worth it. Most of the files at their disposal contained information on par with what they’d find in the Batcomputer. If they hadn’t gotten Barbara to copy the information to her servers they might have sworn it originated with her. 

“Shit,” he cursed, looking at the PDF file on his screen. “We have much bigger problems than Deathstroke”

Yawning and rubbing her eyes, Amy leaned over, “What is it?”

Jason pointed to the list of aliases under the section of the file for the Intermediary. “The Shadow’s Hand, the Demon’s Knife...the brief time I spent with them, the League cites him as the person Ra’s calls when  _ he _ needs something done and doesn’t feel like having his family do it. He’s got a short list of confirmed kills but that’s because he’s that...good.” The way his inflection rose at the end spoke volumes. Despite a lack of recorded experience, the Intermediary - when summoned to do so - had a perfect record. “This just got a lot more complicated.” 

“No kidding,” groaned Dick. “This just keeps getting better. Please tell me there’s a photo in there or a description?” 

Amy interjected as Jason shook his head, “No, but I think there’s a surveillance image of Deathstroke with someone. Looks like Selkirk caught an image of them landing at Gotham International.” She tapped the photo icon on her screen and let it take over. Turning the tablet to landscape, it filled the screen. They all knew Slade Wilson, Deathstroke, his hardened grizzled face unmistakable. Beside him stood a petite. He looked like he was maybe Dick’s age, and had striking features that were almost feminine in appearance, long dark hair that reached the bottom of his shoulder blades framed a slender jaw and cat-like eyes.

“Ah fuck,” Jason face palmed. “That’s Dustan, my other League contact. He knew about Selkirk.” He visibly wanted to crawl in a hole and die. In the years he’d been using Dustan to stay one step ahead of...everything...he never considered that the man was more than an information broker. Someone with an ear to the ground and a price for anything he knew. A number of tips over the years suddenly seemed a lot less convenient and more like they were cherry picked for the Red Hood. Also made the frequency with which Dustan changed residences make that much more sense. He was going to be hunting a man who knew how to disappear at least as effectively as any member of their little family. “Just...fucking fantastic.”


	8. Chapter 8

“The price just went up,” Deathstroke stated matter-of-factly. Via video conference, the three crime bosses stared back at him dumbfounded. Not for the first time either. They’d been stupefied to learn that he’d entrusted the bulk of the mission to the Intermediary, a much younger man who they had known specialized in introductions and coordination efforts. Smirking under his mask, Deathstroke actively enjoyed watching Maroni’s mouth open and close. It reminded him of a pufferfish - which wasn’t far off from his actual opinion of the mobster either. Comparatively, his often-times-adversary Falcone’s jaw was clenched so tight that the assassin was sure the man had broken something. Sionis, however, in the middle of his screen had gone through several waves of emotion ranging from anger to indignance. 

Quietly, he watched the seconds tick by on the clock. He planned to charge them for this call too. When it reached a full 90-seconds following his initial declaration, Deathstroke continued, “You can just hire someone else. I head Deadshot is -”

“We’re paying you out the nose already Slade,” Falcone spoke up first. So he was going to be their voice today. “You wanted a Bat Inconvenience Fee of five million on top of the agreed upon thirty million to come out here and deal with the vermin infestation. Now you want more money.” On the third screen, he could see Maroni furiously typing away on his smartphone. Likely suggesting to the other two that they could cut their losses or some related bullshit. 

They wouldn’t though. They never did. 

Behind Deathstroke, voice like ice, the Intermediary purred, “You won’t get anyone with finer skills than Deathstroke or I. And,” his voice had a sing-song quality to it that made their skin crawl, “No one else is going to be half so discrete about it. You’ll only end up with, how do you say…. Bat trouble.” That made all three crime bosses shudder visibly. 

Clearing his throat, eyes narrowed, Black Mask snapped, “Prove to us your serious first. Then we can talk increased payment. So far all you’ve managed to bring us is a dead informant and a failed attempt on the Red Hood and the Wren kid.” 

“You have a shipment of...unique...chemical substances passing through customs tonight yes,” the unnerving man asked. All three nodded. “If any of these children show, we will provide the proof you require. Then, it becomes thirty-million a head.” And Deathstroke disconnected the call. No outlet for the disdain and no way to contact the pair, without Selkirk’s help, meant they couldn’t attempt to negotiate any farther until Deathstroke and the Intermediary contacted them. It was a tried and true practice that had paid off more than once when Deathstroke worked with the Intermediary. 

Chuckling, the older man pulled off his mask. Grizzled features in stark contrast to the more feminine ones of his younger compatriot. “You sure know how to play a crowd kid.”

Bored he yawned, turning away towards the big couch in their otherwise spartan safe house,“They are no different than the fools for which the Great Ra’s Al Ghul typically employs my services.” He shrugged, crossing with the grace of a supermodel, “They will see wisdom.” The smile that crossed his face as the beautiful man crossed his legs made even Slade shudder. 

\--

“You’re sure you’ll be okay,” Jason asked, brushing some of Amy’s hair off of her face. She was half way through changing into her combat suit; the top hanging around her waist, hands partly in the sleeves. Pursing her lips, the brunette stopped what she was doing. Turning to face him squarely she watched him intently as her hands traced the planes and slight curve in Jason’s side until they were interlocked behind his neck. A small shudder ran along his spine. He shook almost imperceptibly and teased softly, “We don’t have time for that.”

Shaking her head, Amy laughed softly. Since the discovery that one of Jason’s informants was also the very Intermediary helping to try and kill them, she and Dick had practically confined him to the apartment. “I’ll be fine Jay,” she purred, leaning back as his arms latched behind her, palms pressed to the thin layer of her undershirt. The delicate circles he drew with his thumb meant more for his benefit than hers. “If anything goes wrong you’ll come charging in. Literal guns blazing.”

He smirked, planting a kiss on her forehead. “Be careful,” he ordered. 

“Always am.” It was a promise as much as an assuagement. But neither of them had a good feeling about the situation. They’d discussed it earlier. Several times. Even though it didn’t seem necessary, Amy sighed and went over the plan of the evening again. “Dick and I are going to Sionis and Falcone’s offices to do some recon here while you’re in Gotham at Maroni’s.” Confinement aside, they need his help with the next stage in the recon and preparation for a likely confrontation.

The huff and petulant expression that flashed across his face, blue eyes becoming stormy and dark, was enough to tell the whole world how much he disliked this plan. “You know how I feel about us splitting up,” he grumbled; she nodded. The whole plan wreaked of every bad horror film he’d ever seen.

Pulling back, Amy turned and finished rolling the top half of her suit up. Thumbs hooking through the ends of her sleeves. Out of her peripheral, she saw Jason grin. “We can’t do everything together on this one though,” she sighed, shaking her head. In the silence that settled, they could hear Bludhaven’s heartbeat outside. Cars shot down the lengths of road, honking and rolling around corners. Airplanes cruised overhead. All of it mingled with the sounds of animals, people, and weather into a great cacophony that usually served as the soundtrack of their lives. Now, it felt like a funeral dirge. Forcing a smile she rose up onto her toes and pressed her lips to his.

Jason caught her around the waist. He wasn’t ready to let her finish and walk out into the night. His arms tightened, like he was holding on for dear life. 

“Everything’ll be alright Jason,” Amy’s fingers softly combed through his hair, settling at the base of his skull and brushing along his hairline. The tone in her voice was calming, like having Vick’s rubbed over his chest. The sort of thing that made him not only calm down but genuinely believe her. Believe that they – that he – was overreacting to the situation at hand. A few minutes and several lingering kisses later, Jason watched as Amy disappeared into the night.

\--

No one ever accused Falcone and Sionis of being clever. Really clever. That distinction fell to people like Lex Luthor who employed biometric locks backed by complex mathematically based puzzles for their basic security. The things that Bruce and Barbara solved for fun.

Sionis, as Amy discovered, relied on far more pedestrian methods of securing his safe and offices. Things like 16-digit numeric passkeys, fingerprint identification and - her personal favorite - security key cards like the one she lifted off a security desk after setting up a camera loop in the lobby. It was all very James Bond and had the Irish girl grinning ear to ear as she disappeared into a back stairwell. Fortunately, the under surveilled access gave her enough room to deploy the grappling gun. It certainly made the trek up the twenty floors less exhausting than hiking up twenty floors of stairs.

The executive suites were certainly less ostentatious than was expected of Black Mask. He certainly liked to flaunt the ill-gotten fruits of his labor. Though, from how sparse this place was compared to his main office in Gotham, it was clear he didn’t want to spend any of his wealth on Bludhaven – despite its strategic importance as a port. Even if it was smaller than Gotham’s. The lack of décor, however, had another effect. It made the hackles on the back of Wren’s neck stand up.

Tiptoeing her way past the naked windows and stock-photo laden walls, Wren finally found herself in the executive suite serving as Black Mask’s personal office. Opening the double doors revealed a large office, the same layout as she’d seen at his Gotham offices. Desk facing away from the window, bookcases on the north wall and large television monitors mounted on either side of the door. Standing open, contents long gone, was the safe embedded in the remaining wall. Wren had expected to spend a few minutes breaking it open – a welcome challenge given the ease with which her stolen keycard had given her access thus far.

“Ah…” she gasped, eyes going wide as something bit into the muscle in the base of her neck, where it met her shoulders. Vision blurred, movements sluggish, she tried to spin around only to fall on her side. She crashed through a table and chairs, trying to activate the taser in either gauntlet. But her hands were numb, the nerves not responding to her brain’s commands.

“Heh, who’d have thought catching you would be so easy,” Deathstroke chuckled as the brunette fought against the sedative he’d injected into her system. She swung her legs at him weakly, an effort to knock him off balance no doubt. It failed, of course. In her drugged state all the assassin needed to do was take a half step back. 

She attempted to speak but her voice faltered as the sedative robbed Wren of consciousness. Shaking his head, Slade scooped her up off the cookie-cutter office carpeting. Throwing her over his shoulder in a fireman carry. Almost delicately, he spun on the balls of his feet and marched off down the corridor. 

“I have to wonder if Dustan is having this much ease with his assignment,” he yawned, patting his freehand over his mouth reflexively. All despite the presence of his mask, of course. 

\--

Nightwing dove, rolling behind Falcone’s desk. It hid him from the prying eyes of the League assassin standing in the hallway. Gave him a second to catch his breath and formulate a response. Being ambushed was something he’d expected, despite being so ill prepared for it. He muttered softly, “Ya got cocky bird-boy.” Popping up from behind the executive desk he let a handful of shuriken fly. They sank into the wood before he realized the Assassin was gone. At the very least in cover.

“You’re better than I expected,” the voice was seemingly disembodied as it surrounded him. It sent shudders up his spine.

There. At the edge of his vision, he caught a flash of movement. Bringing up one of his escrima sticks, Nightwing caught the assassin’s arm. Both men glared. The assassin’s eyes felt bottomless compared to Nightwing’s own. Their respective masks – half face vs. domino – obscuring their identities. Counter measures aside, Nightwing knew he was poised against Dustan, the Intermediary. Knew this fight could end in his death. It was an all around bad day. “Dammit,” he grunted, using his greater size to force Dustan back. It even appeared Nightwing had knocked him off balance.

Or so he thought.

Dustan tumbled backwards. His palm hitting the carpeting. Then, like a spring releasing tension he pushed up and into the air. As his body twisted like a ribbon, the other man threw a number of kunai knives at Nightwing. Several missed entirely as the vigilante performed his own acrobatics, most burying themselves in the desk or wall where his body had been. “So this is how it’s gonna be,” he clucked, his slender bird-shaped shuriken flying.

A number of the spinning daggers knocked parts of a subsequent volley of kunai from the air. They clattered to the ground. One of the shuriken grazed Dustan’s face, tracing a slender line down his cheek bone, above the half-face mask covering his mouth and nose. He snorted derisively , “Chk. If you weren’t vital, you would die for that.” Thin wisps of blood trickled down his face. Eyes narrowed, he drew another kunai and let it fly. The knife caught in the window dressings when Nightwing turned to avoid the hit. That was his opening, the other man’s eyes were fixed on the throwing knife.

There was a flick in his wrist and the dart flew. It bit back of the vigilante’s neck, just below his hairline. A thin sickly grin spread across his face under the mask. If Nightwing could have seen it, his skin would have crawled. That thought made him giggle girlishly as the sedative sent the vigilante crashing, face first, into the heavy wooden desk. “Perhaps I used too much, eh, no. Not possible,” his voice was sickly sweet, “Though I do wish the boy would have provided more of a challenge. This was dull in the end.”

Gravity dragged him back to the ground, his booted feet making no noise at all. Unless they were looking directly into the room, no one would have known he was there. A ghost. Even as he hefted Nightwing’s body over his shoulders. “Ouf,” he grunted, wincing. It seemed Nightwing had landed some hits when he’d tried to ambush him earlier, they’d require an examination upon his reunion with Deathstroke. “And you’re heavy. Uck. I should have volunteered to go after that stupid girl.” 

\--  
Hours later, as he rifled through a filing cabinet in Maroni’s Gotham office, a cold feeling crept into his gut. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Slamming the cabinet shut and stowing his informational loot, Jason made a beeline for his bike. He had to get back to Bludhaven. Had to follow up on something that he should have checked days earlier, immediately following Selkirk’s death.

Racing through the cities, he broke half a dozen speed and moving laws. It didn’t matter. Even helping on this mission, this bit of recon, he was sent out of Bludhaven in case they were targeted. “Fuck,” he grumbled under his breath, rounding a corner. His mind raced. 

They couldn’t just hide. Good of an idea as that seemed in the moment, all three of them knew it wasn’t viable. Not only would it not guarantee that The Intermediary – Dustan – and Deathstroke left Bludhaven but it wouldn’t guarantee that the pair would consider their contract fulfilled. None of that accounted, of course, for the fact that none of the trio were willing to sit on their hands while the assassins ran rampant. Or as close to it as League assassins would go.

All that considered, it did nothing for Jason’s nerves when he broke into the luxury (even by Bruce’s standards) apartment that had been in most recently to find the place barren. Save for a note addressed to Jason, well, to the Red Hood. A Red Bat symbol traced on the outside of the envelope. Something wasn’t right. He could feel it in his bones. According to the scans from his helmet there was nothing dangerous in the envelope.

He picked it up gingerly, turning the envelop over as he drew the buck knife from his belt. He slipped the sharp edge under the lip of the envelope, slicing the tape used to seal it open like it was butter. So far, there were no signs of anything alarming contained within. That made him more uneasy.

Swallowing hard he flipped open the envelope and used the knife to hold it open as he inspected its contents. Tucked within the paper walls were two locks of hair. One black and short, the other long and dark. Behind them a 3x5 card with the words: SEE YOU SOON inscribed in bright red block lettering.

“I am going to kill them,” he growled.


	9. Chapter 9

Ice water drenched the pair. Both Nightwing and Wren yelped in unison at the shocking frigity that brought them back to consciousness. It was Nightwing who growled at their captors first, when he realized he was shackled to the wall. Unable to move more than a few inches in any direction. “Well this is shit. Thanks for the invite there Slade,” he narrowed his blue eyes at the older man.

The black and orange clad assassin grinned under his mask, “Heh. You can blame that new friend of yours for this. It’s all his fault.” He meant Jason – the Red Hood – and they both knew it. It wasn’t wrong. His actions in Gotham had led Black Mask to band together with Gotham’s most affluent mob bosses. Had been the catalyst for the attacks on the trio thus far. Not wrong but absolutely not fair to blame everything on Red Hood. After all, Wren and Nightwing had done their fair share of damage to the three mob bosses smuggling businesses.

The pair had stolen or destroyed shipments of drugs and illegal chemicals, sent weapons and people smuggled into the country to the authorities, and basically made life extremely difficult for organized crime in Bludhaven. What were several dozen raids and ruined illicit deals between denizens of the night.

Swinging a leg out in an effort to catch either of their captors unaware, Wren lashed out, “Basterds!”

“Oh lovely, the children have woken,” it was Dustan, his hand catching the girl’s leg around the ankle. “Good morning.” No more face mask. They could see his features plainly, a sickeningly sweet smile curled across his lips going practically ear to ear. His grip may have been delicate but they knew something was off in his demeanor – like a hunting dog before crushing its prey’s throat. He squeezed Wren’s ankle gently at first, increasing the pressure applied over time, it was apparent to all of them he was testing her pain threshold.

Wren gave him nothing. Clenching her jaw and narrowing her eyes at him behind her domino mask. At least she and Nightwing had been left with those. She could see his as clearly as she felt her own against her brow ridge. Releasing her leg, Dustan sighed petulantly, “You’re no fun.” Then that grin widened, “Yet.”

He turned balletically, flashing an unpleasantly toothy grin at the duo and confidently strutted out of the room. Dustan set off all of the alarm bells for both Nightwing and Wren. His kill record aside, talking with him made the pair palpably nervous. “Don’t you two go anywhere,” Deathstroke instructed, the irony not lost on either of the manacled vigilantes as he followed the unsettling youth. Only when the door closed heavily did either Nightwing or Wren release the breath they’d both been holding.

“Any ideas,” he asked after counting to ten silently. He could she her utility belt had been taken as well as his, the familiar weight gone from his hips. It was likely they’d been searched, which meant that all of their tools and toys were gone. “Maybe a bobby…” he trailed off, realizing Wren’s hair was hanging lose. They’d even gone to lengths of undoing her hair and removing the clips and pins that held baby and shorter hairs in place.

Wren cocked a brow at him and glared side long before redirecting her gaze to the door, “What do you think? And the Hood.” There were no windows in the door and what windows were in the room had been covered with spray paint and cheap adhesive blinds. What light they had, came from a children’s night light in the far corner of the room relative to the wall they were both manacled to.

“That’s not a plan, that’s a calamity,” Nightwing groaned, rolling his eyes and hanging his head. Once he knew they were missing, Jason was going to come in armed to the teeth. Probably well enough to take out a third-world dictator. Or three.

\--

Jason had been too late and now Dustan and Deathstroke had Dick and Amy. Even torching Dustan’s vacant hideout wouldn’t have made him feel better. Not like he’d be inconveniencing the man, and the knot in the pit of his stomach told him it would probably come back on Dick and Amy so long as they were captives. “If anything happens to them,” he growled, not that anyone was around to hear the cautionary threat. A low grow caught in his throat as he carefully replaced the locks of hair in the envelope and stuffed it in the inside pocket of his jacket. 

He had work to do. Those two were counting on him. 

His stomach turned as he stomped back down the stairs towards his bike in the alley outside. The engine growled softly at him when he turned the key. His mind racing as he kicked the vehicle into gear and tore down the road. Weaving in and out of traffic, he was reminded how much smaller Bludhaven’s footprint was compared to that of Gotham. Everything about the city was that way, more claustrophobic than the city of his birth. It meant, if nothing else, a smaller search area.

Far as he knew, however, Jason was racing against time to find the others. But there was nothing he could do without help, he knew it. Hell, this whole case had forced him to rely on the others in ways he didn’t really want to.

He hadn’t wanted to be a part of the Bat-family again, not yet. But he had. The minute he chose to find his brother and Amy that night weeks, months, earlier, he’d been brought back into the fold. When Nightwing, Dick, had continued to drop in and provide mission support – and their investigations became linked – he was still treated like a member of the family. It even seemed to him that when he’d tried to bully Bruce into killing Joker that he’d still been part of their dysfunctional clan. Elsewise Dick would likely have done everything in his power to turn him into law enforcement. That Jason would never have been left alone with Amy after his arrival in Bludhaven.

Swallowing, leaning the bike as he rounded a corner onto the freeway, he realized just how concerned he was about her safety. The fear and worry over Amy’s safety made his stomach turn. “I’ll find you,” he breathed. That, as he righted his bike, was when it hit him: Barbara would have the best chance of helping him find any way to easily track down the other two.

Another turn, he leaned the bike in the opposite direction. His mind turned too. He knew the League as well as Batman. Knew the kinds of things their agents were capable of doing to hostages. Tracing the threads if what he knew helped keep him from tracing those of what he feared.

The vault of a parking structure came into view, it served as one of half a dozen caches and parking locations for the trio. Once within its range, the door reacted to the remote entry switch near the bike’s ignition. Rolling in under the corrugated steel door, he pulled off his helmet the moment the bike came to a stop. He barely had the kickstand down before hopping off of it. When the kickstand caught, it rocked slightly, giving a cadence to his anxiety that Jason hadn’t expected. He jumped, a shudder going down his spine. Hand wrapping around the door knob before him, his hair stood on up like a bunch of straight pins. 

A second later, his helmet was back on and side-arm drawn. 

Clicking the safety off he slowly pushed the door open. There were three flights of stairs between the garage and an upstairs studio. It wasn’t Dick’s home base but it did allow them some privacy when needed. His foot falls were silent – even on the tile and concrete floors of the garage and hallways. Short of being seen, if there was someone in the garage and pseudo-safe house they’d never see him coming.

Meticulously he cleared the first of the three floored building. What would have been a lobby or front office was vacant, doors still barred against the outside world, windows boarded up. That was a check in his favor. He sighed, slipping into the office itself. A few taps on the keyboard and the surveillance camera feeds popped up on the old monitor. Thanks again to Barbara for setting up that system too. They absolutely owed her for all of their technical setups.

The camera feeds showed that everything was clear, no one else was in the building. Didn’t mean he’d be any less quiet, practically tip toeing out of the office, as he checked the other two floors. The second floor of the building held a few cots and one and half bathrooms. All clear – just as the cameras below had told him. Save for a few pictures taken over the years of the Bat-family (all in their respective kits of course) and some newspaper clippings, the décor worked in his favor. Partially sound proof materials and muted neutral tones were fantastic in a hide out.

Tentative steps sent him up the stairs to the third floor studio and roof access. His preferred exit from the building truth be told. Deep breaths, one at a time, long and slow. Nothing but a spare set of clothes for Dick and some over-the-counter medications in the upstairs rooms. Where the emptiness of the little garage would have been comforting under normal circumstances, it was unsettling now. An ominous premonition of what he was going to find at the apartment.

The wind tore the rooftop door out of his grip, slamming it unceremoniously against the roof access’s wall. “Well, so much for surprise,” he grumbled, walking out and into the open. The telemetry on his helmet echoing what he saw: no one. He was alone, unpleasantly and depressingly alone. The hope had been there that when he exited onto the roof he’d have the opportunity to fight either of the two League members. A hope that was dashed almost instantly. Only the HVAC units and roof vents greeted him on the asphalt.

“Okay Jason, think about it for a minute,” he started on the math; securing the pistol in its holster he crossed the roof. Continuously scanning it he walked through the problem further, “I have an envelope, a 3x5 card, and locks of hair that look like Amy’s and Dick’s. Okay, so what’s traceable - the papers and maybe the ink. Okay, what else Jason.” He paced the edge of the roof, fishing out his grappling gun. There had to be something else, something more expedient for tracking down his friends. Had to be an easier way to deal with the situation than he was seeing. 

The wire and hook pulled him up into the night. 

Absent-mindedly his eyes followed an ambulance. No lights flashing, just running the track back from wherever it had been to on its last call. It stopped at lights, took turns carefully, there was nothing urgent about the way it moved. None of it’s gear brought any attention to it now. 

That’s when it hit him, as his boots slammed into the steep supports of a crane. The vantage gave him a different view of the city and it was where the solution to his problem smacked him in the face like a freight train. “Their comm devices, Jesus, Jason you’re an idiot,” He chastised himself. 

Barbara had built and programmed the devices that Amy and Dick - and now Jason - used in Bludhaven. Assuming they hadn’t been destroyed, he could use those. With her help, he could track them down and get them back. 

Crouching at the end of the crane arm, he rubbed his hands together. A tap on the side of his helmet and flick of his eyes to the correct listing on his HUD and Jason had Oracle’s contact visible. Hesitating, he prayed, “I hope I’m doing the right thing.”

Everything was small from up on the crane arm. It was one of those places that put things into perspective because he realized how small he was. Realized that he was a single link in a much greater chain and a more extensive family. One where doing everything on his own meant getting killed...or more importantly getting the people he cared about killed. Taking a long, slow breath he tapped the side of his helmet again. The line rang once, twice, three more times before Barbara’s computer generated Oracle mask popped up as a small icon on his HUD. “Hood, what’s up,” she sounded exhausted. 

“Long night?”

“Haha, very funny. Batman had me running more background on something. Haven’t had to pull an all nighter like this in awhile,” yawning she continued, “What do you need Jason?” 

“Can you, um, track the comms devices for Amy and Dick,” his voice was tentative, like a child afraid to tell his parents he’d broken something expensive. He knew damn well that the second Barbara realized they were missing, she was going to kick his ass. Possibly kill him. No, definitely kill him.

The ferocity of her voice was enough that it startled him so badly he fell off the crane arm. “DID YOU FUCKING LOSE THEM! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME! JASON PETER TODD WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO!?”

Shaking his head, it dawned on Jason that he was falling. A few curses escaped him as he scrambled for his grappling gun. The rebar below him didn’t look particularly friendly, standing bolt upright in concrete foundations. Absolutely not the way he wanted to end his night. A swift pull of the trigger and the hook launched into the skeleton of the building by the crane. He heard the gears inside it engage, dragging him sharply through the air. The change in direction yanking his arm harder than he expected.

Well, served him right for letting Barbara Gordon scare him and then falling off the damn crane. Rookie mistake and he knew it. Barbara, by comparison, was still yelling at him – full volume no less. So far she’d cursed him out, again, and then demanded an explanation. Not that he’d been able to even start one yet. “Ouf,” he grunted, hitting the side of a steel garter. “Okay. Barb…BARB,” he howled, cutting her off. “Shit. I’ll explain everything if you stop yelling at me.“ It was also taking everything he had to not call her mom. He figured that would get him beaten to within an inch of his life next time he saw her.

Not that that wasn’t on the tech wizard’s “To Do” list at this point anyway.

Through audibly clenched teeth, Barbara growled, “Start. Talking.”

“Gladly,” his voice was more amicable and jovial than he felt. But one of them had to be calm right now, or at least appear that way. “We split up to do some recon.” He could practically hear the tirade the ginger was having in her head. “They sent me to Gotham because they figured it’d be safer. Obviously not. So, yea, now I’m trying to find them because the assassins left me a message. And, well, I don’t like it when people beat up my brother or threaten my girl.”

That last one caused Barbara to do a complete 180. Her voice softened, curiosity overriding her anger for the moment and Jason could hear her eyebrows raised as she asked, “Your girl?”

Waving his left hand in circles, he groaned, “Yea. Yea. Explanation, interrogation, and threats later, tracking now.” This hadn’t been how he’d envisioned telling the others that he and Amy were back together, but the sentiment would have been true regardless. She was his girl and no one was going to hurt her if he could help it. 

“Hey, I can multitask. It’s the search program that needs another minute. Thank you very much,” the red-head retorted. Her avatar might have lacked animation but her tone and pitch painted a clear picture for Jason. For all of them. He could see her nodding her head side to side and glaring with furrowed brows. The indignation she felt implied by both her voice and the pose she’d likely struck in her wheelchair. The conjured image made him chuckle. “What are you laughing at?”

Lowering himself, back against the support beam of the building’s skeleton, he offered, “Don’t worry about it Barb.”

The seconds ticked by and he had to wonder if this was what Bruce had felt like when he’d been kidnapped by Joker all those years ago. If his adoptive father and mentor had agonized; fought every urge to chase threads of “what if” until he’d exhausted everything else.

“Got ‘em,” Barbara’s voice was like an alarm. “Sending you coordinates now. Do you need back up?” She was offering up Bruce and Tim – the current Robin – on a platter. Help for a night that was getting longer with each breath. A part of him wanted to accept, to let Bruce and Tim come to his aid. Granted he was more willing to work with his replacement, strange as it seemed, than his mentor. No, this was something he had to do himself. It was his fault, after all, for stirring up the damn hornet’s nest.

Shaking his head, Jason assured her, “I’ve got this.” His backup was already there, hopefully not much worse for wear. They needed to be alive and intact. If they weren’t then not even Ra’s would be able to bring back Deathstroke and Dustan when he was finished with them.


	10. Chapter 10

Nightwing punted what he assumed was a mouse or rat back across the room. “These two are friggin hysterical,” he grumbled, wishing that their would-be jailers had had the decency to give them ample room to move before locking them in with what he presumed, from the handful of squeaks, were a number of starved and inquisitive rodents. “Not a fan of these things.”

“Join the club,” Wren sighed, following her partner’s lead. The small roden she’d kicked away squealed as it hit the opposite wall. Hopefully skittering away and into whatever served as it’s hidey-hole. Normally she’d have had an aversion to harming an animal not actively attacking her, but these suckers had been investigating and, in one or two cases, nipping at the pair for what felt like hours. A potential rabies shot was not something she had any desire to undergo. It was a small favor that not only did their suits provided enough coverage and resistance but that their captors had left their garb intact. It provided both of them with protection from the attempted taste tests.

The rodents were the least of their problems. 

Deathstroke had returned twice since they were strung up. The first time to cut a lock of hair from each of their heads – Wren had slammed her knee into his groin which earned her the bruised ribs on her left side. The second he’d given them each water. Said he couldn’t have them getting dehydrated if they were going to be his “guests”. Nightwing had sniffed it and snipped tentatively. Wren didn’t trust it, hers sat unopened on a table that was, sadly, bolted to the floor. There was so much she or Nightwing could’ve done with it had it be mobile.

Dustan had also come back a couple times. He was their interrogator; it was almost adorable watching him work. He demanded their names – got nothing. The names of the other Bat family members – received a whole lot of sass from Nightwing and Wren. Then he resorted to violence. Hadn’t broken anything yet, but it was a safe assumption that when they got out of here, both would be taking a break from patrols for at least a week. Maybe two.

The second time he bothered to visit them, he pushed open the door and grumbled at them. “You two are fortunate that Slade is in charge of this operation. He seems to believe there is some value in both keeping you alive and in some sort of functional state. At least until your friend arrives.” A half filled water bottle whizzed past his head - Nightwing grinned ruefully from the shadows. 

Glaring daggers back at them, he stalked over to the table and gracefully snatched up the remaining bottle. Turning on Wren,“You children should not waste water,” his voice sent chills up her spine and it took everything she had not to kick his hand and the heavy plastic container up into his smugly perfect face.

Instead, she cursed in Irish, “Go ndéana an diabhal dréimire do chnámh do dhroma.”

Chuckling, Dustan clapped his hand against her cheek patronizingly. Like a cornered cat she turned on him. Snapping her teeth sharply enough the sound sent a shudder down each of their spines. Wren missed the meat of his palm, but only just. No matter how much she wanted to, properly landing an attack on the unknown quantity was suicide while the two vigilantes were otherwise prone. “Ah,” she yelped as he knotted his other hand in her loose hair, knuckles scraping against the back of her head. 

Sneering, he yanked hard, Wren could feel the skin pull hard and thought for a moment it had torn. “Don’t be clever. Your kind aren’t meant for it.” He’d pulled her head hard and at a sharp angle. Holding her head there, the forced joviality melted form Dustan’s face. He pushed her against the wall, laughing to himself as the brunette’s balance failed and she cracked her back and skull against the wall itself. She landed in a half squat, half seated position on the grimey floor. “That’s better,” he clucked, running his tongue along his teeth.

Almost mechanically he released her hair. The flourish with which he reached back, as he straightened himself, and smoothed his long dark hair was staged as the rest of his appearance. It had, in their imprisonment, become woefully apparent that most of what they saw of Dustan was pure set dressing. They were waiting for the varnish to come off so the homicidal animatronic could jump at and rip their heads off. Silence enveloped the delicate mane as he pirouetted away from them and strutted out of the room leaving both vigilantes visibly uncomfortable.

On his way out, Dustan swung by the corner with their nominal light source. “Good night kiddies,” he sneered, kicking the light effortlessly from the socket. It shattered as it smacked into the ground, sending their hearts to their feet. With a flip of his hair, Dustan slammed the door, leaving the pair in total darkness.

\--

“Are you finished trying to frighten them,” Slade yawned, stretching out on the big couch in the dilapidated apartment. He was certain that at some point, as Gotham companies worked their way through Bludhaven, that this building would inevitably be as gentrified as the ones several blocks west. Until then, however, it served as a suitable safe house for the pair – despite being well below Dustan’s standards. 

Stretching, the visually delicate man lowered himself into a battered armchair, “For now. Neither seems to respond to the more delicate methodology you require.” He emphasized that word, delicate. At least in comparison to his preferred tactics, he was using kid gloves. “I do wish you’d permit me my kit. They would tell us everything about their Gotham counterparts and much more.”

“Ah, no,” the older man warned, eyeing his temporary partner from the corner of his eye, “None of that. Ra’s and I may not see eye to eye but I am going to respect the order to be at least…civil…to the bat brats.” Civil was a stretch and they both knew it.

Turning so he could see Slade, legs draped languidly over the chair arm, Dustan rolled his eyes. “We’re to end them regardless,” he picked at the fuzz and frayed threads on the chair’s fabric, “You could at least permit me a little fun.” The older man rolled his eyes, a grunt his only other answer. With a whine in his voice and a rolling wave of his hand he pleaded, “Fine. Drug them perhaps?” He twirled some of those loose threads absentmindedly with his other hand, watching the older man like a child waiting for a present. Even as Slade denied him the pleasure of torture and torment, Dustan remained poised.

“I figure the Red Hood will show up soon enough,” Slade yawned, “We’ll have some fun with him, kill his friends, then him. Figure out how you want to dispose of or, hell, display the bodies.” Arms crossed over his chest, he sank a little lower into the couch. His feet were propped up on the opposite arm. “In the meantime, I’m taking a nap. Behave yourself,” he warned.

Casting a longing glance at his box of tools and personal effects, Dustan sighed, nodding his acquiescence to the older assassin. At the very least he had the joy of determining what would happen to their contract captives. 

\--

“You okay,” Dick asked. The shadows dancing around them mockingly with a potentially unconscious Amy on the floor. He was just far enough that even nudging her with his foot proved too much.

A cough answered the acrobat, “I hate him.”

\--

It made sense for them to be in the Narrows. It was the most likely to have vacant buildings and, despite the higher police presence, they were less likely to investigate the building. That lack of law enforcement assistance would be extremely helpful, meant he could operate in peace. A white puff of fog replaced his breath as Jason put the UV scope to his eyes. Adjusting them, he spotted several heat signatures in the penthouse. Of course it’d be the penthouse, Dustan had particular tastes even in something so poorly maintained.. “Okay, so there's Wren and Nightwing,” he mumbled, reading the distance that his scope registered between his perch and the two figures he saw up against a wall.

Top of his head peeking out over the roof’s edge, Jason scanned the floor where his friends were. Nothing registered on the scope at the south end, but the north had two additional figures. One lay prone on what he presumed as a couch or a sofa. The other was doing some kind of exercise, it looked like a combination of dance and calisthenics, “Dustan.”

His best point of entry would be one of the blacked out windows in the back room where his friends were being kept. The question at hand, however, was how in hell he could cross and get the window open without attracting attention. It was a safe presumption that the windows had been nailed shut – one that would be rewarded, he was sure, when he finally went to the other building and started fidgeting to get inside. Then again, making an entrance could be entertaining.

The helmeted former-Robin watched as the lounging figure he presumed was Deathstroke finally pulled himself off his would-be bed. As he joined Dustan for calisthenics, Jason turned his attention from their heat signatures. “Well hello,” he grinned, sizing up the rooftop water tower. “You’re some kinda of beautiful.” It was empty, there were rusted out holes in it but he could still use the garters and supports beneath it as an anchor point for his grappling hook. Then secure it on his current rooftop perch before zip-lining across the street. He ducked his head below the roofline, checking his inventory for the dozenth time, ensuring he’d brought the necessary supplies for this maneuver

Rucksack slung over his shoulder with a self-satisfied grin none could see, he let the hook fly. The muffled clang as it caught the steel sent a sudden shiver up his spine. “Here we go,” he grinned, crouching to tie off the line on his end. An ambulance shot by below as he hooked onto it and went sailing over the streets of Bludhaven. Knees up towards his chest as he flew over the street below. What seemed like less than a heartbeat passed as Jason cleared the lip of the opposite roof. The bottoms of his boots scuffing the lip of the brick guard wall. 

He grimaced, shifting his position slightly to attempt an improvised braking maneuver. All he could do now was hope that he could slow down before impacting the water tower’s supports. 

Unceremoniously the flats of his feet smacked into the side of the garter and sent a small impact shock up his legs. Through gritted teeth he hissed, “Let’s do this.”

Dropping down to the rooftop he landed on the balls of his feet then forward to his gloved hands in a PK roll that put him five feet farther from the water tower and closer to the side of the building. His trek had gone well, better and blissfully quieter than expected. Despite that, it was imperative he kept his expectations in check. If his footfalls were too heavy or he was cocky after repelling to the window it could alert the assassins to his presence. He couldn’t risk that. Couldn’t risk Dustan or Slade using his friends as shields or simply killing them outright. 

\--

They watched as a huge section of the window pane moved. Pushed first into the room then lowered to sit on the floor. The light pollution that poured in was enough to disorient Wren and Nightwing for a minute. Both grimaced softly, blinking frantically in an effort to acclimate to it. When he released the glas and let it rest against the wall, they recognized Red Hood’s gloves and jackets. As he dragged himself in the open window, careful to get his feet on the sad excuse for carpeting and not the glass pane he’d cut out of the window. 

When Red Hood’s vision landed on the pair, he crossed his arms over his armored chest and shook his head, “See, this is what happens when you go do shit without me,” he joked. Receiving nothing but sour looks in return from the duo.

“Heya bro, you wouldn’t happen to have the keys,” Nightwing snarked back, in no mood to take any kind of flack from his younger brother. In time with the request, he raised his arms enough so the other vigilante could see the metal restricting his movement.

Shaking his head, the Red Hood shrugged, “Nah, but will these work?” Reaching over his shoulder into the rucksack he produced a set of bolt cutters and held them up for both to see, like a jeweler showing off beautiful necklaces. It was a pity they couldn’t see the childlike grin on his face. 

“I take back every mean thing I just thought about you,” the older man said quickly, a half cocked smile spreading across his face. 

Wren had to clench her jaw to keep from erupting in laughter. This was one of those times when the family ability to turn anything into a veritable bag-of-holding never ceased to impress. By the time Dick had finished his thought, Jason’s long strides had brought him over to the pair. With speed fitting a protege of Batman, he snapped the bolt securing the first of the manacles around his wrists. It swung free and clattered against the wall as Dick freed his left hand. Going between the pair, Jason repeated the motion three more times til they were free. 

Their restraints swung back and forth, a muted dinging danced through the small room as the metal clicked together. The two vigilantes rubbed their wrists and stretched. Spine popping from hip to shoulder, Wren shuddered. “You have a plan then yes?” Spending what she presumed had been hours, maybe the whole night, locked up and restrained left Wren feeling like a cornered fox.

“Kick their asses,” Red Hood smirked.

“Ungh…hate to say it but yea,” Nightwing said. Nothing about the situation was ideal. Neither Nightwing nor Wren had their weapons and utility belts. Insofar as they knew those were out in a corridor on the other side of the door, along with two heavily armed assassins. They looked at the door, the trio studying it carefully as if the brick of wood would itself launch at them with furious strikes. “We can’t run, they have part of our gear,” he pointed out. Didn’t matter that Jason had already noticed they were unarmed, “So taking them out here is our only choice.”

Shaking his head, Jason argued, “No. you two get out of here.” The bolt cutters lay on the floor and he held out a pair of grappling guns towards them. “This is my fight. I’m the reason they’re here. You guys don’t-”

Amy interrupted him, eyes narrowed and voice acerbic, “No. We’re staying. You don’t get to martyr yourself for me. Or anyone the hell else.” Despite the feeling translated through her words and tone, the Irish girl kept her voice low. The last thing they needed was for their hosts to come through that door while they were less than prepared. “No. Just…no. If you stay to fight, so do we. If we run, so do you. End of story.”

They hadn’t heard the door open. With the lights out in the corridor, none of them registered the light bleeding in from the rest of the apartment. “Well, well, look at this.” Slade’s voice triggered adrenaline voices in all three as he loomed in the doorway, reaching up for his sword hilt. 

Improvising, they moved like clockwork. 

Jason tossed the grappling guns to the others. They arced through the air, and he drew the firearm from his left holster. Repositioning himself between Slade and the others, he clicked off the safety as Amy caught one of the grappling guns and dove out the window. It would be categorically stupid for them to attempt to take Slade alone in the room, didn’t matter that they had the numbers on him. He was armed to the teeth.

A round shot from Jason’s side arm as he and Dick back up to the window. The muted explosion that launched Amy’s hook reached their ears and, as Slade launched at them, the duo flew out the windows. Jason shattering one while Dick followed the path his partner had taken. As they fell, the orange and black clad man leaned out the splintered window frame. The shots Jason fired had nicked his sword arm. One grazing him with little more than a contact burn, the other piercing the outside of his bicep. In the larger front room, Dustan watched through the sliding glass door. 

He could see the trio ascend, staggered in an abrupt change of direction as they launched their respective grappling hooks. “Shall we then,” he inquired, voice dripping down the hallway over their radio channel.

Indignantly Slade growled at him, “Fine. Get your things. We’re going hunting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amy’s curse translates to “That the Devil will make a ladder out of your spine!” 
> 
> Found here: https://www.irishtimes.com/life-and-style/abroad/54-irish-curses-you-won-t-have-learned-in-school-1.3011527


	11. Chapter 11

“I brought presents,” Red Hood chuckled, nodding at a second rucksack on the roof. He’d tucked it neatly between a set of steam vents. The questionable hidey-hole kept the back up supplies and small arsenal he’d brought safely out of sight. It wasn’t how he’d planned to get the others out of the apartment and across to the roof. But it had worked and at least they could fight with what could theoretically be accounted for as home field advantage. 

“You raided my safe house,” Nightwing’s voice was devoid of emotion, eyes narrowed and brows thin. The domino mask showed more of the thinly veiled irritation than expected.

One of the bullets from Slade’s own side arm whizzed past. Interrupting what had otherwise promised to be a proper brotherly debate. An argument much like the one they once had over a bedroom in Wayne Manor. “Well time to go,” Jason countered abruptly as Wren scooped up the rucksack and darted past them towards the far side of the roof. 

They could hear the cord bend as Dustan ran along it. “Oh right,” Wren grinned, fishing a shuriken from the bag. Her fingers grazed the pouches of what had been her old utility bet. Flipping it across the back of her fingers, she cast a quick look over her shoulder behind them. “One, two, three,” each count felt like an eternity as the assassins made their way across the city ravine between buildings. A flick of her wrist, and the shuriken flew. It sliced through the line just ahead of Dustan. 

“You wanna hand me that,” Nightwing asked, sliding over a steam vent. With a grin, he held out his hand for the rucksack. One of his bird-shaped shuriken flew past, driving itself into the vent he was meant to barrel roll over. It was not a good day. To top it off, as the trio moved over and around the roof, the weapons from their stolen utility belts flew past. 

Looping the trio of belts over her arm, Wren pulled them free and passed him the bag. Her old apparatus had been less elegant. A utility belt with thigh holsters and pouches. Snapping the main belt around her waist as she slid behind cover, Wren chuckled. Fastening the other buckles in place, she elbowed the Red Hood playfully. “Thanks for these,” she tapped the fully loaded pouches. Jason hadn’t just raided Dick’s supplies, he’d armed his friends (and himself) for bear.

Across the way, behind another vent, Dick was fastening his own gear in place. It was his generation-one escrima sticks, harness, and utility belt. The design was based on his old Robin gear, save for the holsters he’d cobbled together for the escrima sticks. Those were modified from a design he’d seen in an old Kung Fu movie. Leave it to Dick Grayson to find inspiration in a campy film. Fully loaded utility belt and back up weapons in place, he sent the backpack - whose remaining contents were exclusively ammo for Red Hood – flying across the open space between their covers. Two more shuriken, both carved to look like birds, nicked the heavy canvas bag.

All they lacked were the tasers that both Nightwing and Wren carried – the ones in his regular escrima sticks and those in her gauntlets. Wren caught the now lighter bag as Jason popped up, both side arms in hand, “Stay down babe,” and let a series of rounds fly over the top of the HVAC unit that he and Wren had ducked behind. He was pointed to their 6-o’clock, engaging Deathstroke as the orange and black clad assassin tucked in beside a curved vent.

Rolling her eyes, she looked across to Nightwing. Deliberately, he set a hand mirror against the corner of a pallet fillet with construction materials. Glancing at it, the veteran could see Dustan’s approach. He was more heavily armored than his lithe frame and build had suspected. The wisp of a man was creeping down the center approach. They weren’t sure if it was a conscious choice or part of a plan with Slade to try and flank the trio. No, to flank JASON. He cursed softly, slipping a trio of shuriken between the fingers of his right hand. Wren followed his lead, two kunai coming out of a pouch on her right leg. 

He flashed the countdown on his left hand, eyes flitting between the mirror and his friends. 3 – 2 – 1, zero.

The second his fist was up they sprang out of their respective hiding places. Momentum and years of practice sending the weapons flying through the air as they changed positions. Now Wren, when she PK rolled to the far side of the HVAC unit he’d been behind, had eyes on Dustan. They heard someone cry out in pain and, eyes on a mirror she pulled from her belt, Wren grinned – one of her kunai stuck out the man’s thigh. It had sunk in half way up the blade and, reflexively she gave a thumbs up to the boys.

Resetting, her flitting between the mirror and the two former Robins, it was Wren’s turn for the countdown. Throwing weapons in hand, even Jason shifted along his established firing line – keeping his back to the others. 3 – 2 – 1. Zero.

They didn’t swap places with the throw. Not exactly. It was the start of their retreat to the roof’s edge fifty feet away. They needed to clear the heavy machines and construction supplies on the rooftop. Sending Dustan off balance, trying to evade the hail of shuriken and kunai, gave them a chance to move to the next cover points. Jason’s suppressing fire was keeping Deathstroke from making much ground towards them – right until he ran out of ammo. “Shit,” he cursed as Wren and Nightwing slid into their new cover positions. 

That was his queue. Jason plucked a trio of smoke pellets from one of the utility pockets in his jacket and sent them flying. It was like a cascade, each one hitting the ground a few seconds after the others until all three burst, sending up a wall of smoke that overwhelmed the rooftop. It startled their captors and would be killers, neither was prepared for the smoke. Not the way Jason employed it. He’d used several different chemical compositions in his smoke pellets. They yielded a cloud of smoke that cartoonishly heavy and seemed to have a bluish-gray tint to it. 

As Slade and Dustan coughed heavily, still trying to close in on the vigilantes, the distinct explosions from grappling guns echoed around them. Even with the smoke blinding them, the two assassins knew their prey was being drawn across the sky - hands wrapped tightly around their tools. 

\--

Jason took up the rear guard, letting a half-length develop between himself and the others. He needed the lead time right now, if anything happened. He was sure they were being tracked by the other two. It’s what he’d do. Knew it was what Dustan - the Intermediary - would absolutely do. It was part of how he’d earned his reputation as one of Ra’s most reliant weapons. That was it. They’d been thinking about Dustan backwards the entire time! He wasn’t a member of the league, he was a weapon, a tool, not a person. “Slade’s more human than that...virus,” he snorted.

As their feet finally hit the steel garters of what happened to be the same building where Barbara’s tirade had nearly killed him. Skidding along one of the support beams, he hooked an arm around Amy’s waist, “You okay?”

“Nothing a hot bath and some yoga won’t fix,” she winked. The way yoga rolled off her tongue, the curl off her lips, it sent a shiver up Jason’s spine. Behind his helmet a giddy grin spread, ear to ear. Moments like this made their fight – Bruce’s goddamned Crusade – worth fighting. He squeezed the Irish woman in a sidelong hug, forgetting the weight of their current situation.

Then Dick groaned, the eye roll audible with every syllable, “Could you two, y’know, do this later? Maybe after we deal with the assassins trying to turn us into a paycheck? I’d really like to maybe survive long enough to, oh, see sunrise.” He was leaning heavily against one of the upright garters, muscle fatigue catching up with him. The hours spent in Deathstroke and Dunstan's custody felt like days thanks to how they’d been restrained. Their patrols beforehand hadn’t been particularly gentle and, to top it off, the sun was starting to rise. They had precious little time to get to shelter or deal with two assassins. Neither seemed particularly likely in their current state

“I hate it when you’re right,” Jason hissed through his voice modulator. Bless Dick Grayson’s heart. It sucked that his warning came too late. 

Dustan came from above, the flats of his heavily booted feet slamming into Jason’s chest and sending him flying backwards off the garter. It was like a bad flashback. At least this time he didn’t fall half as far he could have. His back hit a completed level of floor several dozen feet below. Pulling Amy with him, they twisted and he did manage to land in a way that this chest cushioned her fall. Both of them gasped hard, rolling apart quickly as the assassin fell heavily between them. If they hadn't done so, it was a certainty that the weight and force of his body would have snapped bones and crushed organs. Neither wanted to experience that. 

It wasn't looking good. They were all three tired and hurt. Well, Jason was hurting, not so much hurt. The impact had, however, knocked out the sensors in his helmet’s HUD. Rolling onto his knees and popping back up, faster than he should have, he yanked off his helmet. The motion practically tore the secondary mask off his face. Chucking the dead red egg aside he received a momentary sensory overload. He could hear the clash above him of Slade’s sword edge against Dick’s escrima sticks. Heard Amy call out to him at the same time he heard the clasp sheathing one of Dustan's co-opted shuriken come undone. 

Ducking, he spun on his heels and slammed the back of his right forearm into the other man’s midsection. The sharp weapon clattering to the concrete. At the same time, as he rose, he brought his left knee up and drove it hard into the assassin's face. It caught him in the left cheekbone and jaw. There was a soft crunch but not enough to make Jason believe he’d done any more than crack or partially fracture the man’s skull. 

When the now injured attacker stumbled back, one hand cupped over the side of his face, Jason finished wheeling around and dropped into a defensive position. Arms raised, he stood ready to take whatever attempt at any sort of brawl that Dustan thought might stand up to him. Come hell or high water he was gonna put this kid down. He didn’t care. He’d gone after two of the people that Jason considered off limits. One more than the other but all the same. No one got to kill the other Robins except for him; if it came to it. “Well, what are you waiting for,” he grumbled, jaw set. 

Dragging the back of his left arm across his mouth, Ra’s’ pet smeared the rivulets of blood that trickled down from his nose and mouth. The hit from Red Hood had managed to do some damage, more perhaps than either man realized. They both heard the electric charges in the gloves hum to life as Dustan clicked them on. The blood stained toothy grin cracking across his face sent a momentary chill down Jason’s spice. Voice devoid of emotion, he answered, “You are no longer a protected dead little bird.”

The exchanged blows, Jason determined to stay out of any potential grapples while electricity arced and cracked off of them. The hair on his neck and face standing at attention every time the strikes came too close or he was unable to push his defense out in time. Even by Dick’s standards the battle was balletic. 

Strangely, however, Deathstroke was retreating. He’d seen both Wren and Red Hood hit the concrete and witnessed the chance missed that Dustan had once had to kill them both. Then another when the Red Hood had smashed his knee into the other man’s face. Chuckling to himself and kicking Nightwing’s legs out from under him, he sheathed his sword. “Perhaps another time boy wonder. I’ll call us even and you can keep your head.”

Winded, Dick shouted, “You’re not getting away!” 

“Don’t test your luck child.” The barrel of his hand gun pointed between Nightwing’s eyes. Deathstroke backed along their current combat platform - a steel framed grate. Eyes fixed on the younger vigilante, crouched and sucking in breaths heavily, “We’ll settle this another time.” His voice was heavy and warning. 

A sickening crack reached their ears. Nightwing broke eye contact and looked down to the floor. Jason was on his back, Dustan straddling him. The two were fighting for position and the control of the other man’s arms. Amy was half a dozen feet away and moving slowly from where she’d landed earlier to get back on her feet. “Shit. Deathstroke, I-” The orange and black clad man was long gone when he returned his attention to the spot across from him. “Dammit.”

\--

The gloves grazed Jason’s cheek and he yowled. He’d have to have words with Wren later about the voltage and simultaneously be thankful for the foresight he’d had to put electrical resistance in his gear. A thing his squishy flesh lacked, entirely. It hurt, burning and shocking his system. He felt muscles seize and his body go tense. 

“I always complete my contracts,” Dustan hissed down at him, bloody spittle spraying the side of Jason’s face as he turned aside. 

Teeth gritted, watching him from the corner of his eyes, Jason taunted, “First time for everything.”

Thunk-kunk.

“Feck off,” Wren heaved as the assassin reared up. Her last two kunai were half buried in his unprotected sides. She’d hit the ground wrong when she drove out of the way of his drop. While she’d been spared the blunt force trauma, she’d smacked the side of her head into a trough of other construction supplies hard enough to see stars. They’d all had it happen in the field before, however, this had been her first time. It had taken her longer than expected to recover, let alone get a good line of sight on what was otherwise an easier target. 

Afterall, anything engaged in hand-to-hand with the boys was something she and Barbara had often considered stationary targets. Even the current Robin, Tim Drake, had developed the bad habit of trying to out-grapple an opponent. This time the daze, however, had nearly gotten Jason killed. As Dustan turned away from the other vigilante, irreverently and enraged, he found and tore the knives from his flesh. “I knew I should have killed you, you mewling quim!”

That was his last mistake. 

Back turned to Jason, visibly unaware of Dick’s current combat situation, and his attention laser focused on Amy he charged the woman. All he cared about was the stumbling and unbalanced woman trying to keep out of his reach. Mid charge, he crumbled to his knees. It was eerily reminiscent of Owen Selkirk’s assassination. This time, however, there was no follow up shot. Instead, Dustan reached up to the hole blown in his chest. 

Wren had backed into a support beam. The same panic from that night weeks ago bubbled up to her as she watched their would be killer bleed. Her eyes were fixed on his blood soaked hands, her kunai falling from them to the concrete as he tried to stop up the wound. She missed Jason’s own Dunstan's head until it moved sharply to the side and crack. 

“What the hell just happened,” demanded Dick as he finally finished the climb from his bizarre fight with Deathstroke. He’d just given up and something about that was fishy. Right now, however, he needed to take care of his family. He resisted the urge to rip Jason a new one for snapping the remaining assassin's neck. It had been, at minimum, overkill considering the chest wound. Something he was starting to suspect that Deathstroke had done. Wouldn’t have been the first time their long time adversary had done something like that instead of killing one of them. 

Crouching beside the one corpse they had, he relieved it of their looted gear. In the process, he could see Jason out of his peripheral vision The resurrected Robin had crossed to Amy. They were speaking soft and furtive, as he checked her neck and head for any visible injury. “I’m sorry,” was the only full sentence he heard. 

“We need to go,” Dick warned, carefully peeling the electrified gauntlets from their dead assassin’s hands. “Security or cops will be on the way.” 

An explosion pierced the night, practically punctuating Grayson’s observation. None of them needed to look behind them to know Deathstroke had just sanitized the safe house he and Dustan occupied. Probably took out the whole floor in the process. 

Extricating himself from Wren’s side, Jason walked over to his derelict helmet. Fixing this was going to be a pain, but it’d keep him busy. “Let’s go then,” he grumbled, everything hurt and he wanted a bath and sleep. Silent nods and the soft explosions of the grappling guns was enough to communicate agreement. They weren’t finished with this, even if The Intermediary now lay dead in a Bludhaven construction site.


	12. Chapter 12

Jason sat at the workbench with his helmet in hand. It had been designed to take significantly more punishment that the last fight alone had done to it. He had, however, also been derelict in maintaining his gear since sliding back into the void he’d left in the lives of Dick and Amy. Sighing, he plugged the helmet into his laptop. Watching the two pieces of hardware talk to one another, he tapped absentmindedly at the keyboard. At least the problem didn’t seem to lie with the software. That was a small favor, he had no desire to sit and fix code. 

God that could be boring. He’d much rather reinstall a microchip with a set of tweezers and a soldering gun. 

“Hardware. That’s not...so bad,” his voice trailed off as the door to the bedroom swung open. Looking up treated him to a view of Amy in an oversized shirt and running shorts. The former stolen from his duffel bag. “Hey,” he smiled, nodding for her to come over. 

Holding up a hand, she turned the corner into the open kitchen. “Coffee first,” she yawned, nearly tripping over their boots. It had been over a week since the incident at the construction site and they still hadn’t moved those from their place in front of the freezer door. “Shite...balls…feck.”

Chair scraping across and nearly crashing to the floor, Jason shot up. “You okay,” he called, taking a step towards her. One of her hands was on the counter, the other held up to stop him, she tiptoed around one of his boots - laying on its side like a fallen domino. At least he’d made a fresh pot of coffee when he got up...before dawn. The cabinet clanged open and she nearly dropped one of the mugs as she drew it down from the shelves, cursing again. It was a process and the woman had visibly not slept well. When she finally finished the voodoo that was pouring herself a cup of coffee and padded from kitchen to workbench, Jason asked, “How late did you end up working on this stuff?” 

Their gear, armor and base layers aside, was spread out on the workbench. That included his firearms, neatly stored in cases of different materials that spilled onto the floor and formed a row against the wall. “Too bloody late,” she yawned over the rim of her mug. It was his way of saying he didn’t remember if or when she’d crawled into bed and expressing concern for her that tugged at the back of his mind.

“The discharge mechanism diagnostic is done by the way,” he thumbed at her dismantled gauntlets and heard her mutter something that sounded like an  _ okay _ before dragging the rolling chair along behind her. He watched her spin the chair around and straddle it. Her arms were propped against the back, coffee in hand. Dropping back in his own chair, Jason sat facing her. “I looked over our intel. All that data we followed to Black Mask and then...Dustan.”

“Aye?”

“It was bait. Meant to get us away from doing what we do best: Cracking heads and...repurposing the mobs’ shit.”

“Back to basics then?”

“You know it.”

“Destroy the drugs, turn in the guns, and so on.”

“The drugs I can get behind. Was wanting to keep the weapons though.” 

“You’re mad love.”

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair and throwing his arms behind his head, nearly knocking his laptop off the table in the process. “AH!...You know you want to rob ‘em blind to!” A broad, sparkling smile beamed back at her. It had a disarming quality that worked on everyone except his adoptive family, and Barbara Gordon. 

“ Dia ár sábháil ,” she muttered, taking a swing from the black and gray striped mug in her hands. The eye roll she gave him included the fully involved head bob for effect. Jason laughed almost despite himself. A half second later, coffee warming the length of her throat, Amy continued, “Someone has to make sure you, ya know, stay alive.”

His face clouded over for a split second. He knew she was teasing, knew it was meant to be in jest, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t kicking himself for getting killed all those years ago in for the first place. Then it was gone. The broadway smile that had faltered cleared up, his blue eyes looked like clear sapphires, and all that remained was a puzzled look on Amy’s face. “Jaybird,” she coaxed, a hand on his knee, “Love, where did you go?”

“Hm?”

“It was quick but you...you weren’t here were ye?”

“I’ll tell you about it later, okay?”

“Okay…” She’d resolved not to press when that kind of heaviness fell over him. There’d been a professor in her gen-ed psychology class who’d made a point of impressing upon the students that pressuring someone with obvious PTSD or similar potential issues would likely end with them being not only shut down but also out. That was the last thing she wanted. Jason was back, provided he stuck around (in every way that implied) then it meant he’d inevitably open up. She patted his knee as he turned his attention back to the readouts from his helmet. “Why not tell me what’s going on with that?”

He’d started clicking through the screens, visibly furrowing his brow on the third one. “Um...well, some of the circuits on my HUD aren’t working right.” Flipping the red egg over in his lap, Jason’s fingers glided along its seams until he found the internal release. A pop echoed in the room and it separated into three loosely conjoined parts: a front and back of the helmet itself and the inner lining used to both cushion it and protect the internal electronics. “Looks like,” he followed a trio of wires that traveled along the jawline to the lenses and hung his head. “I found it.”

Withdrawing his hand from the cluster of red and black, a section of frayed wire and snapped plastics filled his palm. “That, is part of the circuit and wiring harness that actually lets me see.” Hanging his head he tapped the computer keyboard with his other hand, the ocular lenses lighting up. “It gives me biometric feedback like what the old man has in his cowl, not as complex as his gear but more so than your mask or Dick’s. Unlike you guys, if this is broken, I’m pretty much walking around in the dark with sunglasses on. This,” he set the circuit and wires down, tapping the brow of his helmet, “Thing has no peripheral vision, what so ever.”

“Where did you get it,” she’d scooted forward and was leaning in to look at the circuit boards and frayed wired as best she could against the chair back. “These are…”

Chuckling to himself, Jason answered proudly, “I broke into the R&D facility for Wayne Tech’s Korean offices. Knocked out the security, whole deal. It was fun.” 

“Dunno about you,” her eyes were locked on the one-inch squared chunk of circuit board in her hand. Turning it over, the cracked and separated or corroded components were painfully visible. “But this is beyond my ability to fix.” That knowledge sat like a knot in both their stomachs. “And breaking into the main offices of Wayne Enterprises is-”

“Next to impossible. I know.”

“It’s the only place that’s actually meant to keep us out.” 

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.” He had no point of reference to promote this kind of confidence. “Hack a few consoles, override the computers -”

She laughed, sparing a glance from the circuit assembly, “I repeat: You’re mad.”

\--

“ _ How did I let you talk me into this _ ,” Jason could hear Wren paced back and forth on her perch. She’d taken up position on the roof of the office high rise across from Wayne Tower. Her voice was edged with concern and knew that, despite her walking a rut into the roof, her eyes were him. He’d given her his sniper scope for just that purpose. When he didn’t answer, preoccupied with the roof access console, the Irish woman's voice chirped in his ear again, “ _ You sure that patch job will hold for this? _ ” 

Chuckling across their comms he offered, “ Yes it will; also this is fun and you’re an excellent partner.” 

_ “Well, provided we don’t get caught. How are you planning to thank your partner?”  _

“Dinner,” he promised, overriding the pass codes finally. The lock popped open with a soft click. “Steak, I’ll buy and cook.” Pulling the door open, he drew a pre-cut strip of duct tape across the bolt to prevent it re-engaging. He also put a thin piece of rubber in both the top and bottom corners so it would appear closed on cameras, all while remaining ajar a few millimeters. 

_ “I’m sorry, you cook now? When did this happen!? _ ” There was a level of incredulity mixed with the disbelief in her words, he was amused. Pre-Lazarus pit bath, he’d been unable to make more than general breakfast items, spaghetti, and a few simple meals. Chili was the most complicated thing he’d dabbled in at the time. Post-Lazarus pit, he’d had to figure out how to prepare a wider array of meals in order to survive. 

Trailing back over the awful black and red calendar that served as the last several years Jason pinpointed at least the location where it started. “Somewhere on the Mediterranean coast. Not sure what country though,” he whispered, splicing and cutting the wires on one of the doors leading from the roof access stairs to the executive suite level. “Memory serves,” he grumbled, changing the subject,“There are some spares in the Old Man’s office”

He could hear Wren sputtering on the other ends of their communication channel. Clearly the news he’d learned to cook had her spinning.  _ “And it’s edible?” _

“Yup,” he chuckled, the locking mechanism chiming as it disengaged. A gentle twist of the knob, another strip of duct tape across the lock to prevent it from catching. Once more he left it partially ajar, unlocked and closed softly enough the weight didn’t force it closed. Ahead of him stretched the corridor that included two the offices of the CEO, CFO, and COO as well as Bruce Wayne’s own. The spotty telemetry helped him skip past and around the security cameras and sensors. 

Getting into the offices was the easy part, especially Bruce’s own. Never failed to surprise him that the old man didn’t take greater precautions. And, as the grand wooden doors swung open, he realized why. “Fuck.”

_ “Jay?” _

“There’s enough security in this room that it makes Luthor’s look like an open bar,” he grumbled, getting the fractured scan of the room. It was big and equipped with everything from retinal to pressure scans. “Also I can make baklava now too.”

She giggled and he grinned, tip toeing past a number or laser sensors. “ _ A nice dinner date will be perfect then.” _

“Glad someone’s going to appreciate my cooking,” he had three safes to choose from. One, he remembered, held spare electronics for the Bat family gear. Another held a handful of emergency weapons and grappling guns. The third, behind the portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne held company relevant documents and information. “You got any ideas Irish? The telemetry scanners are just functional enough that I -”

“ _ The one behind the portrait of Bruce with Dick and Alfred,”  _ she cut him off, still watching from across the alleyway.  _ “You’re cute when you puzzle over something. _ ”

He chuckled, “OF course you know. Alright, let’s hope the part I need is there.” Carefully he crossed to the large portrait, the urge to take out his combat knife was strong but he knew slashing the damn thing was going to get them caught. Gingerly he slid it aside, turning so his back held the stupidly heavy portrait and it’s ostentatious gold painted frame back. It gave him access to the digital lock staring at him from the wall. “Oh shit.”

_ “Everything alright?” _

__ Nervously he answered her, uncomfortably admitting this lock was beyond him, “He...uh...yea...no. I can’t open this.”

_ "Beg pardon _ ?”

“I have seen this lock once and it nearly got me caught and killed.” He laughed nervously frustrated, “The short version: I tried to get into the Batcave when I first got back through the vehicle access. That was, um...a mistake.”

_ “Full story later. You want me to come over?”  _ Her suggestion wasn’t unwarranted. Afterall, two pair of eyes would likely be better than one. 

“Hahah,” he reached into his jacket, pulling out a small explosive device, “No, I have another plan. Just, um, just be ready to run like hell Little Bird.” He affixed it to the locking mechanism keypad, tapping a four digit code into its interface and shifting to grip the portrait he added, “On my mark.” He hefted the painting off the wall, it was longer than he was tall and nearly sent all six-feet of him falling backwards with its unwieldy size. Leave it to Bruce to have something overwhelming in such a prominent place. He set it on the opposite wall, near a painting of Wayne Tower. Go figure.

Wren didn’t have a real opportunity to respond before Jason dropped on the far side of Bruce’s giant desk. No sense playing fast and loose with this little gadget. His need for the circuit board out weight even the shrapnel of a desire to reconcile with Bruce. The old man would get over it. Not like what was about to happen could really be considered unexpected. After all, this was how  _ he did things _ . “Mark,” he hissed over comms, squeezing the small detonation switch tucked in his left hand. 

The following explosion was enough that Wren saw it from her point across the way, peering in the window with the sniper scope. The average person on the street wouldn’t see or hear it. That didn’t mean, however, that the security personnel half a dozen floors down were unaware or that Batman hadn’t been alerted to the intrusion.  _ “Shite Jay _ ,” she cursed. 

“Get going.”

_ “Not til you leave that building.” _

Shaking his head, Jason stalked back to the now open safe. Putting his legs into it, he yanked the heavy steel open. There were two shelves: One holding waterproof strong boxes with microchips in it, the second held a full utility belt for a Robin. Oh yea, that was coming too. He slung it over his head and let the belt drape awkwardly around his chest before tucking the two small boxes into the pockets of his jacket. 

It took him a minute to get situated. “Okay, and out the window,” he answered the silent panic coming from Amy across the way. “Please tell me you’re moving,” getting the windows of the executive suite open was the easiest part of their night. 

Grappling hook engaged, it dragged him across the street and onto the next roof a heart beat before the security personnel opened the door. At least there’d be nothing in the safe to out their dysfunctional little family. They couldn’t have that happen.  _ “We’ve got incoming _ ,” she warned. 

“Well that was quick.”

\--

They’d narrowly gotten away from Downtown Gotham and Batman without issue. There was no guarantee Jason hadn’t, towards the end, been caught on camera but it was something he’d deal with later. At the moment, getting them the rest of the way back to Bludhaven was his top priority. He could fix his helmet later, now that he had the parts. Right now, he had a promise to keep. Sitting in the passenger seat, his whole body leaning against the door and head lolling forward as she slept, was the one person in the family he knew he had to make amends with. 

Alfred would forgive him. The man probably already had. Dick had basically done the same, surprisingly. But Grayson had always had the over-protective brother complex. As for Bruce? That was still no loss.

He changed lanes, left hand on the wheel while his right came to rest on Amy’s thigh. Their haul and their masks were in a backpack in the seat behind them. Not for the first or last time he smiled and whispered, “It’s good to be back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dia ár sábháil. = Lit “God Save us” But it could work as “Good Lord” and “Oh my God!” Source: https://inirish.bitesize.irish/3649


	13. Chapter 13

“Would you go sit down,” Jason ordered, sprinkling a mixture of salt and pepper over the two strip steaks. “I know you’re sticking out your tongue,” He added, putting the two hunks of meat in the skillet that he’d been warming on her stove. As they sizzled and the apartment was filled with the glorious smell of roasting meat. He heard her settle into one of the bar stools between the couch and breakfast nook counter.

Excitedly she drummed her fingertips on the faux-granite counter top. “There’s something extra attractive about this whole scene,” she purred, despite the prep space looking like the rubble from demolition. The black-haired young man hopping around her kitchen was somehow smartly dressed, compared to his usual jeans or sweats and an “I think it’s clean” shirt. (Fact: They were often not.) He’d even worn an apron over the layered button up and black tee-shirt in a surprisingly successful endeavor to keep the somewhat nicer clothes nice. From her perch she could even see the pride in his body language. 

He took the steaks off the heat and transferred them to a cutting board, covering them with a sheet of foil before turning his attention to the beeping over timer. His whole process clockwork: out came the baking sheet and twin baked potatoes were tongued into two plates, followed by portions of asparagus. Jason had splurged a little on the meal, both with the semi-fancy vegetable and a better cut of meat. Splashing tom of the juices from the skillet over the plates, he smiled triumphantly.

“Alright Irish, prepare to be amazed,” collecting the two plates he walked over to the dressed up workbench. He’d cleaned it up earlier in the day, when he’d tasked her with going out to get a bottle of wine and some honey. Those were both things he’d intentionally forgotten as a way to get her out of the apartment so he could dress it up. And dressed up the whole place was: he’d taken their gear and moved it to the bed room. Firearms under the bed, their suits folded and hung in a closet. He’d even gone so far as to vacuum and dust. 

Absentmindedly he added, “Could you get the lights?” It was a request she obliged without a word as the lights in the kitchen and living area went out or were dimmed. The two full plates landed on the table with a gentle tap. A pair of matching, clean, hand towels served as place mats. Paper towels were rolled like they were fancy napkins. Far as he was concerned, it may as well have been one of the high end restaurants Bruce had dragged his wards to over the years. 

“Well,” he asked anxiously after they’d settled into the rolling chairs that served as stand-in dining room chairs. Amy was chewing some of the steak with a bliss filled expression on her face. 

\--

“He did what?!” Jason nearly choked on his wine, eye wide and face open. He couldn’t comprehend what he’d just heard. 

Swallowing her own mouthful of drink - like a champ, she laughed softly, “That’s exactly what Dick said, same expression too.” Laughter echoed in the apartment, a bright song that was a balm their wounds.

“Holy shit. And here I’ve been, well, y’know,” he waved a hand at his gear, tucked out of the way. A fair portion of his funds had come from the resale of his illicit bounties. Stealing the guns, drugs, and other weapons had been easy. Selling them for profit, or parts once dismantled, had been significantly more difficult. It had, however, netted him some decent income - along with the kickbacks from anyone he offered protection to, right until his confrontation with Batman. 

Winking playfully she pushed the now empty dessert plate aside, “Sure do.” 

“Geez. I mean...shit,” Jason rubbed a hand over his face, grunting into his palm. 

The visible mental stuttering was concerning even to Amy, “You alright there?”

“Doesn’t change shit though,” he shrugged finally, setting his nearly empty glass down on the table. He was fidgeting, left leg bouncing energetically under the table. Inevitably he banged the leg and the underside of the table top.

Reaching across to him, the Irish woman rested a hand on his. Jason had balled them into fists on either side of his plate absentmindedly. She squeezed his hand, “Didn’t expect it too, but it’s there. What do you think you’ll do with it?”

“Take it, figure he owes me - all of us - after turning us into his pet soldiers,” the blunt force of his words wasn’t lost on her. Bruce had talked about ensuring that his adoptive sons all had funds available to them. It was the least they all deserved, considering the things that they’d been through as his wards and soldiers. Even Tim Drake - the “replacement” - had a trust fund, though with less money than the others since he’d only been a Wayne for a short time but it was there and they’d gained access to them when their 21st birthdays passed. Jason’s had even been left alone following his death; Bruce was distraught and even looking at the balance sheet had been more like salt in the wound. Or so Alfred had told them. 

“Same decision I made with the one he’d set for me,” she nodded as he turned his hand over. Their palms pressed together and their fingers clasped one another’s hands loosely. It gave them each comfort and a measure of safety as they mulled over the existence of the Wayne Ward Trust Funds. Half mumbling Amy wondered aloud, “Though sometimes I do wonder if it’s not just blood money for his guilty conscience.” 

“Your dad,” he reached across the table, taking her hand in his. “I’m sorry Irish. If nothing else he kept the promise to take care of you.”

Nodding she looked away, past the other Wayne Ward and out the corner of the window. Like his had weeks earlier, her face clouded over. “It’s not just my da, granted he was excited when he got that job with the port. Thought it’d be a new life for us, guess he never thought…”

“It’d end up being without him. Sweetheart, you’re making him proud.” Jason reached out with his free hand, brushing it along her cheek. When she smiled, leaning into the touch, he continued, “Got a best friend and partner out of it,” he grinned, standing and leaning across the table Jason pressed a kiss to her lips. 

“You were the biggest part of Bruce’s guilty conscience too. Especially when it came to Dick and me. He talked about losing you as much or more than I had the heart to, his little brother.” 

“I’m glad someone cared.”

“We all do,” she clarified. As if on queue, Amy’s mobile phone began chirping at them and interrupting both the conversation and their date. The unique ringtone she’d assigned to Bruce’s phone numbers, and he had several, echoed through the apartment. “Who’s that,” Jason asked.

“Arugh. Bruce. Basterd can go to voicemail,” she glared across the room to see the device light up and vibrate a little ways across the counter closest to the sink. A second and third round of calls - all from the Batman - and her phone fell off the counter with a heavy thud. 

“Good, can’t have him interrupting,” he grinned, leaning in until his forehead rested against hers and he could capture her lips with his. Jason had to take the victories where he could, and having this kind of makeshift romantic evening with Amy was worth every second.


	14. Chapter 14

Slade stood at the center of a dark conference room. One of those arched tables was set part way to the center and a VOIP phone sat at its apex. “Thank you for the clarification Mr. Wilson. Please let The Demon know we appreciate his assistance in this matter. With the gangs to distract them, the Bat and his proteges will be little more than a minor inconvenience. One to be dealt with at the appropriate time,” a man’s distorted voice echoed in the predominantly empty room. 

“Your agent didn’t need to take out the whole damn building. Almost didn’t get back to collect my rifle,” he grumbled. 

The woman who spoke next shrugged in a way that traveled through her body and into her voice. “Necessary sacrifices Mr. Wilson. I’m sure you’re familiar with those. Now, do you have anything else to report,” she wondered with a yawn. This whole thing bored them and really shouldn’t have. 

Deathstroke contemplated advising them against taking the vigilantes for granted. Thought that maybe it would be wise to let these people, who Ra’s had only loaned Dustan and himself to for show, know that Batman and his surrogate children were a force to be reckoned with. But he didn’t. When the Demon came for them, he would want Batman and the Robins on his side in destroying this would be cabal. “Thank you,” he nodded, “If that’s everything, I’ll be going. Ra’s Al Ghul is expecting me and if we have any hope of bringing back the Intermediary, well, the less time I linger the better.”

“Mmm,” the woman spoke again, “Yes, your payment has been wired. Mr. Rose, please see Mr. Wilson out.”

“Yes ma’am,” the young man - not much older than Grayson - behind him spoke. “If you’ll follow me.” He moved like the eldest of the Robins, graceful like he might have been an acrobat once or at least had trained long and hard in more gymnastic athletics. His hair was shaggy, light brown and the way his whole body moved made Slade’s skin crawl. He wasn’t right. 

\--

In the Clock Tower, Barbara was digging through the files her lunatic friends had stolen from Black Mask. She was running, in a sandbox, an analytics program to pull any relevant data. With the Intermediary dead and, presumably, Slade on the run, they were likely no longer in as much danger. At least not anymore than usual. That revelation only lasted, however, until the worlds  **Talon** and **the Court** scrolled across her screen the code from the matrix. 

“...Fuck...”


End file.
